


Like Ships in the Night

by ayoungvein



Category: All Time Low, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Of Mice & Men (Band), Panic! at the Disco, Pierce the Veil, Sleeping With Sirens, The Academy Is..., You Me At Six
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shipwrecked, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 80,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayoungvein/pseuds/ayoungvein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their plane goes down on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, the survivors of the crash must learn to work together to stay alive even as they begin to discover they may not be alone on the island....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reparations

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of like Lost, except I have never watched Lost before. Message me and let me know if you like it! I do not own any of these people.

I.

 

_Shards of broken glass cut into his smooth hands, crimson streaks of blood dripping from the porcelain skin, his body a mess of grime, dirt, and whatever battle scars he wore, the only proof of reality his depleting sanity held onto because this could not be reality. Blinking, he looked up and was able to ignore the throbbing pain on his battered and used body because there was a man standing there, staring at him with a cruel sneer on his lips. It was Jack. But that was okay because Jack was_ supposed _to be with him. Only he wasn’t supposed to be covered with blood, he wasn’t supposed to be glaring down at Alex in pure hatred, and, above all, he was not supposed to be clutching a knife._

_“What are you doing to me?” Alex groaned, breathily, staring up at his friend. He could feel the blood on his hand refusing to clot and just dripping… and dripping… and dripping. And he could feel the eyes of Jack, scrutinizing and threatening, watching him. Alex couldn’t do anything but smile at the face as it stepped closer. However, when the cold metallic blade of the knife touched the back of his neck, he shuddered. Not from anticipation, even when he knew what was coming, or from the pain and adrenaline pounding in his ears. No, this time, Alex shuddered because he was scared._

_Because to him, Jack Barakat was now the scariest person in the world._

Alex Gaskarth’s eyes flew open, and his mind drifted miles from the dream he had been having that was nothing more than a blurred reel in his head. He groaned into the harsh light of the sun’s rays that were spilling down upon him. All he could see were periwinkle blues and grays of the sky swirling above him; that was all his vision could afford him at the moment, and he groaned again, feeling both too drunk and not drunk enough for this. His head lolled back and hit… sand? Alex blinked. Groaned again. Sat up despite the heat and the light and _the smell_. The putrid smell of burning metal and something similar to a dead animal hung stale in the pungent air around him.

Blinking one last time, Alex finally adjusted to the here and now: the reality and the nightmare. He was on a small coast, washed ashore, and watching the horrors of a burning plane sinking into the body of water in front of him. And Alex suddenly found himself in a front row seat to watching this alternate reality adjust its timing to the sinking of the plane in front of him.

The roar of the flames, kissing the metal. The screams and shouts. The hissing of the fire. Panic. Hysteria. Everyone was running around. Crying. Groaning. The tide lapped against the shore like nothing had happened. But to Alex’s left, all he could see was red. Crimson red drip… drip… dripping as slow as the sinking plane.

With shaking legs, he managed to stand up; but upon immediately gaining his balance, Alex only wished to fall back down to the sandy ground and sob and throw up because _this has to be a dream_. Their plane fucking crashed, and all that was left of the wreckage was the putrid smell of burning metal and the smell of - Alex choked on a sob - the smell of death.

The beach was littered with it. Death. Blood. Bodies burned raw from the collision of the plane against the ground. The explosion of the engines. There were dead bodies right in front of Alex. He didn’t know what to do, where to start, or _who_ to look for.

“Alex, thank God!” Someone’s voice made it through to him in his groggy state. It was a clear and tangible voice against the static of everything around him. Then, there were arms wrapping around his neck and a face in his chest and tears on his shirt and a strangled voice against his collar. “I thought you were dead. Th-thank God. _Oh, Alex_ ….”

“T-tay,” he stuttered, trying to hold the both of them up and trying to take in what was happening, but he couldn’t. He was just a boy. He was just a stupid boy who liked to make crude jokes and drink too much and play music and write depressing lyrics and say fuck too much. He was just a stupid boy from Baltimore who thought he could be somebody. How could this had happened to them? _To him_? “What happened?”

“Our plane crashed,” she told him, finally easing him back down to the sand as his legs quivered beneath their combined weight. Her hair was a mess. There was seaweed in it and sand, and it was wet and stringy. Her eyes were big and red and puffy from crying. There was a bleeding cut across her face, a tear in her shirt, and a hiccup in her choked voice. “Our plane crashed, a-and people are dead, Alex! Z-zack’s dead. They’re all dead, and _I don’t know what to do_.”

Alex didn’t reply to her because he wasn’t sure what to do, either.

Slowly, though, her words sunk into his mind. Scrambling to his feet, Alex stares through the chaos of the collision, his mind racing. He saw people pulling charred bodies from the wreckage, he saw dark puddles staining the white sand at their feet, and he saw people bent over, crying and throwing up into the ocean. But the only thing going through Alex’s mind was the constant thought of Jackjackjack and wherethefuckwasJack?

“Alex, where are you--?” But Tay’s question was cut short when Alex heard a familiar voice in the bedlam.

It was Rian. Rian was crouched beside a body, with Cassadee patting his back and kissing his cheek, and he was crying. He was sobbing and screaming and shouting at the body _not to fucking do this._

That was when Alex realized that wasn’t just a body. It was Zack. It was his friend.

And just like that, Alex took off running, ignoring Tay’s screams that chased after him or the consistent ringing in his ears that was slowly driving him insane. He ran and ran until the sweat poured down his body and his side ached with a stitch in it. He ran until he felt light-headed and nauseous, and he didn’t stop running until, with luck, he saw a figure laying in the sand.

“Jack?!” exclaimed Alex and hurried over to where the body was. 

He was about a half mile from the impact site, but all along the coast of the island there was shrapnel. Fortunately for Alex, the body he had found was Jack Barakat; unfortunately for Alex, he was trapped under a piece of shrapnel, a rigid end of the metal piercing his skin.

“Jack, it’s me!” said Alex frantically as he tried to lift the shrapnel from his friend.

Jack howled in pain. He looked like shit, too, Alex immediately noticed. There was a nasty gash above his right ear, his eyes were hazy and unfocused, and his body seemed unusually pale. “D-don’t fucking touch that! It hurts!”

“Jack, I have to get this off you.”

He groaned in pain and writhed underneath the piercing weight of the shrapnel. “I-I’ll only bleed out, Lex.”

Alex bit his lip, realizing the truth in his words. He heard footsteps approaching fast behind him, and he spun around (even though he knew it was Tay) and barked, “I need something. Something to clot the blood or something. A first aid kit?! Anything?!”

Tay nodded and took off without another word. Even she knew how dire this kind of situation was.

“You’re going to be okay, Jack,” murmured Alex, though it was also to assure himself, “I’m not going to let you die.”

Jack forced a smile. “We always said we’d grow old together. R-remember that? We were going to be dirty old men who still played songs about partying and who still got bras thrown on stage every night.”

“And we’re still going to do that, Jacky,” whispered Alex and grabbed his friend’s hand. It felt clammy and cold under his touch.

Jack’s eyes rolled around in his head, and Alex saw he was doing his best to focus on his friend. “R-remember my sixteenth birthday, Lex?”

Alex gripped Jack’s hands tighter and could feel his eyes brimming with tears he didn’t want to spill in front of the other boy. “Y-yeah, I do.”

“R-remember what you said to m--?” Jack was interrupted by Tay, who had plopped down beside Alex.

“Lift the shrapnel,” she instructed.

“He’ll die!”

“Lift the shrapnel,” she repeated, more firmly.

Wavering for only a second, Alex lifted (with some difficulty) the hunk of plane that held Jack captive.

Immediately, Tay set to work. She pulled cotton balls and a disinfectant from the first-aid kit and went about dabbing Jack’s bleeding cut. He howled from the stinging pain of the disinfectant, but eventually stiffened up and bit his lip, closing his eyes shut tight. She dabbed a cloth and cleaned up the blood until it was no longer an excessive flow.

Then she pulled out a sewing kit and began threading a needle.

“What the fuck are you doing?” asked Alex. “He’s not a pair of fucking jeans!”

“I know that,” snapped Tay, her tongue poking between her lips in concentration, “But there’s no other way to keep that wound closed, Alex. While I’m doing this, I need you to take those tweezers and make sure there’s no metal inside that wound.”

Alex faltered. “W-what?”

“You heard me! I can’t stitch him if there’s metal in there.”

Trembling, Alex grabbed the tweezers and leaned over Jack, pressing his face as close to the cut as possible and pushing the tweezers into the wound.

Jack screamed out.

“Shh,” hushed Alex, “You’re okay, Jacky. I promise.”

“L-lex,” whimpered Jack, “d-do you remember what you said to me?”

“Y-yeah, Jack, I do.”

“G-good.” Jack’s eyes flickered shut again. “B-because I--” Jack was cut off once more by a scream from his throat as Alex finished picking out the final piece of metal bit he could find in the wound.

“Alex, find some painkillers while I do this,” said Tay, pushing him out of the way to lean over Jack and begin stitching him.

When Alex returned with painkillers (the other survivors were busy saving luggage from the plane, and he had asked around profusely), Tay was finished with her work. It was a neat stitch work, and she had even cleaned the blood that had stained Jack’s skin. Her hands were bloody.

“Thank you,” Alex said softly and kissed Tay on the lips even though they both tasted like salty water and blood.

“He’s out of it,” Tay told him, “I’m going to try and help some of the others. I think I saw Josh Franceschi bleeding pretty bad as well.”

She pecked his cheek one last time before Alex hurried over and dropped to his knees beside Jack. He was panting and heaving heavily on the ground, his fingers curling into the sand through the pain.

Alex emptied a percocet he had been given by Gerard Way into his palm. “Take this, Jack. It’ll take the pain away.”

Jack swallowed the pill dry. “I-I love you, you know?”

Alex swallowed. He did know.

“A-and it’s like you don’t fucking care,” rambled Jack, “I-It’s like I’m invisible, a-and I don’t know why because I fucking love you.”

“Jack,” sighed Alex and he reached out to brush his sweaty hair to the side of his face, “you’re delirious.”

It took only a few more minutes before Jack’s eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing evened out. Alex tried not to cry as he pulled Jack’s body close to his and dared to place a kiss on his forehead.

 

II.

 

At impact, the plane had managed to fling parts all across a two mile radius of the large, tropical island. In fact, the plane had even managed to fling people on its descent onto the coast. So it was with that luck that Max Helyer found himself caught in tree. He had been falling from at least a hundred feet when he felt something break his fall that wasn’t the ground. It was a tree, and Max found that his shirt had been tangled in the branches, and he was stuck.

He struggled and struggled, but found that nothing he could do would rip his shirt free of the branches. Closing his eyes, he sighed in frustration. He was going to die here, he just knew it. And the others would find his body hanging from a tree, birds nesting in his hair and shitting on him. 

The plane ride and the crash was nothing more than a blur for the You Me at Six guitarist. One minute he had been relaxed and skimming through an Alternative Press magazine, and the next he had been hurtling through the sky and landing in a tree on some foreign island.

All in all, it wasn’t one of the best flights he had been on.

Max had finally grown accustomed to the idea of becoming a bird’s bathroom (well not really, but he had grown tired of struggling after an hour or so), when he heard a sudden _snap_ and his body fell to the ground leaving his shirt dangling from the branches above.

Bare-chested and sunburned, Max began making his way out of the forest. He could feel the left-side of his body was bruised, and he was more than sure one of his ankles were sprained as his trot was reduced to a mere limp. Thorns from bushes dug into his skin and cut his torso up, he tripped over roots, and he waded through mud before he finally stepped out onto the beach where the plane had stopped smoking, the metal nothing more than glistening red embers, and finally Max could see the results of the disaster.

It was a sickening sight to see, and his mouth dried up. There were bodies scattered across the beach, there was bloodstains across the white sands of the beach, and there was so much crying and sobbing that it made Max’s legs shake until he felt to the sandy ground trying so hard not to throw up.

He saw Chris… and he saw Dan… and he saw the way they weren’t moving.

Max squeezed his eyes shut as the nausea hit, and he puked all across the sand. His throat began to burn, and he threw up because the rank smell of his sick was just that terrible.

“Josh, you have to lay down!” he heard Matt exclaim from across the beach, “Josh!”

A shadow fell across Max’s form.

He opened his eyes, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and looked up to see Josh standing over him. Josh was shirtless also, and Max could see the crude handmade stitches across his stomach where he had been cut open.

“WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?” demanded Josh.

“What, I--” stuttered Max, unsure why Josh was yelling at him when he was here, sick and injured.

Josh looked menacing, in that moment, as he was nothing more than a shadow with soft light around his outline. He looked gargantuan and godly, and Max felt that, somehow, he was unworthy.

“WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?” Josh repeated in his thundering voice that seemed to reverberate across the whole island. “I ALMOST DIED, AND YOU WEREN’T FUCKING THERE!”

And Max couldn’t figure out why Josh was mad at him. Honestly. He tried to choke out his story of being stuck in a tree, but it was no use: Josh had already turned around to retreat back to Matt, who was holding out a painkiller for him.

“W-what about the others?” choked Max, praying that his eyes had betrayed him.

“They’re fucking dead,” snarled Josh, leaving Max at the edge of the forest.

When Josh finally swallowed the pill and laid back down, Matt stood up and trotted over to him and put a comforting hand on his back.

“W-why is he yelling at me?”

Matt shrugged. “He’s stressed. Dan and Chris died, Max.”

“I know! Don’t you think I’m upset about this as well?!”

Matt bit his lip, but he didn’t say anything.

Max wiped his eyes that were filling with tears. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to be the one that fucking cried. Max was sick of always being the weak one. He was sick of being walked over by people because he was younger than them or naïve or acted like a child. Sniffling, Max stood up.

“Will you be okay?” asked Matt.

Max nodded. “Yeah,” he lied because that was what everyone else did when they were upset.

“Josh is delirious. He lost a lot of blood,” explained Matt. “He almost died.”

And just like that, Max was back on all fours vomiting onto the sand while Matt rubbed his back and brushed his shaggy, sweaty hair from his face and shushed him and assured him it was going to be okay.

But Max knew already that those were lies. Because Chris and Dan were dead, and Josh was mad at him, and Max was fucking head over heels for his best friend.

So he fucking cried.

 

III.

 

The shock of the plane crash had finally worn off the survivors. The red embers from the plane had finally died out as it had sunk into the ocean. Luckily for the new inhabitants of the island, they had managed to save much of the supplies they had brought.

The ten bands had been en route from Los Angeles to begin a world tour festival (along with about forty other bands who were on other planes) when turbulence had struck, and the plane, for one technical reason or another, had crashed onto the island. As far as they eye could see, it was uninhabited. In fact, they were lucky this island had been here at all, for they had all been sure they would be crashing into the Pacific Ocean and drowning to death.

A pile of the saved luggage had been piled in the center of the island. Among the items there was merch tents folded up into cases, boxes of merchandise they were supposed to sell, a few guitars, boxes of energy drinks (Monster), water bottles, alcohol, cigarettes, a few electronics (unfortunately, no one had service), piles of junk food, and personal luggage of whatever they had packed. 

Now, everyone was staring at the pile of items, wondering what to do.

Standing beside the chattel, Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump stood.

Patrick had grabbed Pete’s hand and was stroking it with one of his fingers. “Pete, do something.”

“Like what?” he mumbled, “I can’t bring Joe or Andy back.”

Patrick’s eyes stung with tears that wanted to fall, but he blinked them away. He had to be strong. He had to be strong with Pete and for Pete. Pete had only just gotten better (they both had), and neither of them could afford to fall apart again. “I know that, Pete. B-but we have to survive this. We’ve made it this far.”

“What if no one finds us?”

“They’ll come looking for us,” Patrick dodged the question, “I’m sure people are going to notice when a few of the headlining bands don’t show up at the festival.”

Pete ran his free hand through his hair. “This was a fucking bad idea.”

It had been Pete’s idea, for Fall Out Boy’s comeback tour, to create the largest musical festival the world had ever seen. He had convinced bands like The Academy Is… to play one last tour and even managed to convince Ryan Ross and Jon Walker to play with Panic! At the Disco (as Dallon had been called to the hospital where his wife was in labor), and he even had My Chemical Romance together for their last tour too. All across the world, shows had sold out. Now, they were stranded.

“It’s not your fault,” whispered Patrick. “We will get off this island. But until then, we need to keep ourselves alive. We need someone to be the leader. It needs to be you, Pete.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the strongest person, here, I know,” said Patrick honestly.

The corners of Pete’s lips twitched into a smile, but it quickly dissipated as he heaved a sigh and stepped forward so that he was in the center of the crowd. Closing his eyes and trying to pretend he was on stage, he shouted, “ALL RIGHT, LISTEN UP, EVERYONE! WE NEED TO START TAKING SOME CAUTIONARY STEPS. WE DON’T KNOW WHEN HELP IS GOING TO COME, SO WE NEED TO MAKE SURE WE CAN SURVIVE UNTIL IT DOES!”

When no one questioned his proclaimed leadership, Pete continued, “WE NEED TO BUILD SHELTERS, WHICH WE CAN DO OUT OF THE MERCH TENTS. AND WE NEED TO INVENTORY OUR SUPPLIES.” Pete thought of Joe and Andy’s burnt corpses. “A-AND WE NEED TO BURN THE BODIES!”

A collective murmur trickled through the throng of musicians.

Pete went on, “WE DON’T HAVE SHOVELS TO BURY THEM. S-SO I THINK IT’S ONLY PROPER THAT WE CREMATE THEM. WE CAN’T JUST LEAVE THEM TO ROT.”

And just like that, the island divided up. Half of them went to work setting up the tents, and the others set to the more morbid work of collecting the bodies in preparation for the cremation.

And just like that, Pete felt the world spin all around him. He took off at a trot across the coast. It wasn’t until he was about a mile away from the sight that Pete stopped running and fell to his knees where the high tide came up and threatened to swallow him. He ducked his head down and threw up into the frothy water as he thought of how burned Andy’s face was and how much blood had spilled from Joe’s body. He puked and puked until there was nothing left in his stomach and it began to ache, and he began to cry, saline tears that flowed into the salty ocean that fizzed all around him with each wave that crashed against the shore.

This island had taken so much from Pete in such little time, and all he could give in return was a few heartbreaking tears.

Patrick caught up to him, panting. “Pete?”

“I can’t do this, Trick,” he cried, “It hurts.”

Patrick knelt down beside him, ignoring the feeling of the wet sand against his denim-clad knees and the icy Pacific tide. “I know it does, Pete. It hurts me, too.”

“Why does everyone I love get hurt, in the end?” he whispered.

Patrick frowned and managed to find Pete’s hand in the chaos and lace their fingers together. “That’s not true, Pete,” he said firmly, choking back his own tears. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“You’re my best friend, you know that, Trick?”

Patrick nodded and let Pete bury his face into Patrick’s neck and cry for their lost friends and for their horrible predicament and for all the shit they’d been through together.

“This is all my fault,” lamented Pete.

“Stop that!” said Patrick harshly, “You know that’s not true. Don’t think like that. Last time you did--” but the sentence was lost in Patrick’s throat as he remembered the Ativan overdose and the hospital and how sick he had felt when he had received that call. 

“Ending the hiatus was supposed to be a new chapter,” explained Pete, “It was supposed to be a better chapter. Now I don’t even know if we’ll make it out of this story alive.”

Patrick gripped Pete’s hand harder. Because there was nothing else he could really say to that.

 

IV.

 

“Are you alright?”

Everyone else was setting up shelters. The bodies had already begun to cremate, and the smell of burning flesh was sharp in all their nostrils, but they all beat on like boats against the current. There was nothing else they could do. And Spencer Smith found he really didn’t fit in anywhere. He hadn’t really lost anyone close to him, so he couldn’t join the mourning musicians sharing words and stories about the ones they’d lost, and he’d sprained his ankle so he was useless at setting up shelters.

He looked up to see Jon standing over him. His shirt was torn from the crash and drenched in sweat, his sandals were wet from high tide, and he had a pair of shades over his eyes.

It was the first words Jon had spoken to Spencer in solitude. The rest of their conversations since the reunion tour had taken place in front of an audience. This was the first time since the split that they had been alone together.

Spencer smiled at the words. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

Without invitation, Jon took a seat beside his friend. “You looked like you needed company.”

He nodded, but he found he couldn’t think of anything to respond to that.

It felt as though the years of not seeing each other and the distance between them had put on a strain on a relationship that once was. Now, Spencer felt as though he and Jon were no more than strangers to each other.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” whispered Jon, “for everything. You know that.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he went on, “I wasn’t happy.”

Spencer slammed his eyes shut and shook his head. “C-can we not talk about this right now?”

Jon paused before nodding.

“H-how are Brendon and Ryan getting along?”

Jon raised a brow. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about that.”

“I know,” he said hastily, “but I worry. Brendon’s fragile. Ryan broke him, last time.”

“Yeah, well, we always hurt the ones we love.”

Spencer shook his head. “You never destroy the one you love. Ever.”

Jon sighed, “Spence….”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, “It’s selfish. There are more important things to worry about now.”

“How’s your ankle?”

“Hurts.”

“Did you take a painkiller?”

“I don’t want one,” said Spencer warily.

“Why not?”

Spencer swallowed, but he couldn’t find it in himself to admit it. Only Brendon knew about the pills. Only Brendon knew about the monster of addiction that had wrapped itself around Spencer’s mind until he fed it and nearly killed his body in the process. He couldn’t tell Jon. He couldn’t destroy Jon.

“I really am sorry,” murmured Jon one last time before he stood up and returned back to the group struggling with one of the tents.

Spencer sighed and threaded his fingers through the wet sand at his side. He watched the ocean kiss the shore, retreat, and return no matter how many times it was sent away. For some reason, Spencer liked that metaphor.

 

V.

 

The shelters had finally been erected. They weren’t the best shelters to sleep in, but they were the only things available on the island.

Inside Of Mice & Men’s tent, the three remaining members of the band had taken up refuge to escape the blazing heat of the sun. They had shed their shirts and laid on the cool sand, reveling in how nice it felt on their sunburned bodies. Alan Ashby had especially burned as he had the palest skin between himself, Tino, and Austin.

“This has to be a dream,” said Tino.

Alan shook his head, but he didn’t need to say anything to affirm the group that this was their new, twisted reality. But he did steal a glance at Austin to see how he was doing. Austin hadn’t lost anyone since his mother all those years ago. And the front man still often sobbed when they played Second & Sebring because her memory was still very fragile and poignant for him.

But Austin was putting on a brave face for the world. His face was stoic, and his eyes were glazed over with the ghost of loss in them. At the moment, he had sunglasses over them, but even Alan could see through those. He could always see through Austin.

“When do you think we’ll be found?” asked Tino.

“Soon,” said Alan, even though he didn’t know that. But he figured it was his job to assure Austin of that.

Because Austin was very fragile. He always had been. Even though he had survived heart surgery and had battled with depression and suicidal thoughts and had even managed to make it through the loss of his mother, Austin still had a very young heart. He was innocent and naïve, and Alan so badly wished he could shield his friend from the horrors of the world- from the horror of this island. But he could do nothing more than lie for the three of them.

In their tent, they had their allotted supplies. After the shelters had been built, Pete Wentz had made it one of his priorities to pass out equal supplies for everyone (they couldn’t risk leaving them in a giant pile in the middle of the beach). Everyone had their individual bags they had brought, they had passed out as much merchandise as they had, food and drinks had been given out (even though Pete explained they would gather fruit and fish tomorrow when the new day hit). An acoustic guitar sat in the corner of the tent, as well.

“We’re going to be okay,” said Alan with a hint of hope in his tone he hoped would contaminate the others.

Finally, Austin spoke, “Alan, stop lying. We’re all too old to believe in fairytales.”

Alan blinked, and he felt his heart break a little from how jaded Austin had become in three hours time. “I’m telling the truth.”

“Fairytales are bullshit,” muttered Austin.

“Here, here,” Tino agreed.

Alan tried not to look as disappointed as he felt as he fell back onto the sand. “Tomorrow is a new day,” he reminded them.

Neither of them cared enough to respond.

 

VI.

 

When the sun finally began to set on the tropical island, the shelters had been finished, their friends and family had been cremated and recognized properly, and individual fires had been set up outside of particular tents. Bright oranges and cotton candy pinks and pale heliotropes flooded down onto the white sands and masked the dark stains of blood that the ocean had forgot to drown. A cool breeze filtered in with the impending night, and the trees in the forest rustled mysteriously.

From Pierce the Veil’s tent, Vic Fuentes could see a figure sitting alone by the fire outside of Sleeping with Sirens’ tent. Luckily for Vic, his band members had survived the crash with a few cuts and bruises but nothing serious. Unluckily for Vic, his best friend, Kellin Quinn’s band members had not survived. He was the last remaining member of Sleeping with Sirens.

As Mike, Tony, and Jaime began pulling blankets and pillows from their suitcases, Vic grabbed his acoustic guitar and stole out of the tent, slowly approaching where the brooding figure of Kellin sat on a log beside the fire he had built himself. 

“Hey,” murmured Vic softly.

Kellin didn’t look away from the dancing flames or even recognize that Vic was beside him; instead, he shifted over enough to allow Vic room to sit beside him. Vic accepted his sanctioned spot on the log and set the guitar on his lap.

“I’m sorry, Kel,” he whispered.

But Kellin remained resigned.

Vic sighed and began plucking a few chords on the acoustic, singing softly into the silence of the island:

_As I choke, tried to wash you down with something strong._   
_Tried, but the taste of blood remains._

Kellin continued to ignore Vic, but his tense stature relaxed slightly from Vic’s calming, melodic voice.

_Cold, empty mattresses and falling stars,_   
_My, how they start to look the same._

“Vic,” Kellin froze up, but there were no words in his throat to sum up how he felt, so he fell silent again to listen to Vic.

_So keep in happiness and torture me while I tell you let’s go in style,_   
_A million hooks around a million ways to die._

_Darling, it’s cold outside._

Vic continued to play one of his favorites songs he had written to Kellin. It wasn’t necessarily a happy song, and it wasn’t necessarily meant to cheer Kellin up. But music was always a good distraction, and Vic thought that Kellin needed that more than anyone, at the moment.

_No, no more eyes to see the sun,_   
_You slide into bed while I get drunk,_

He could feel the inquisitive eyes of his band members on the back of his head, but Vic didn’t let that interrupt the song for him.

_Slow conversations with a gun mean more,_   
_Than I’ve ever said to anyone._

But he knew what their stares were for; they were wondering why Vic had chosen this particular song to play for Kellin in the firelight. But that wasn’t something Vic felt ready to share with anyone. Only Kellin knew what was particularly special about this song, and that was the way Vic preferred it to be.

He played on, watching Kellin slowly relax to his euphonious vocals that resonated across the campsites. The fire began to die before them, but Kellin made no move to feed the carnivorous flames. Instead, he merely waited for Vic to finish playing the song before he wordlessly stole the guitar from Vic’s grip and set it beside them before he leaned into his best friend.

“Vic,” whispered Kellin pitifully, “I’m sorry.”

 

  
VII.

 

“Ryland, stop grabbing my tit!”

“I didn’t _grab_!”

“You unhooked my bra!”

“We’re under the blanket!”

“Gabe and Nate are still up, you ass,” Vicky-T snapped as she reached around to hook her bra that Ryland, spooning behind her, had unhooked in a futile attempt to suggest passionate tropical island sex with her that would relieve both of their stresses.

“Don’t be embarrassed Vic,” laughed Gabe, “We’ve all seen your tits.”

She glared at them. “Yes, and I’ve seen all your dicks. Now, unless you want everyone knowing what pitiful sizes they are, I suggest you shut the fuck up.”

Nate rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded like, “Bluff,” but even Victoria couldn’t find it inside her fiery attitude to yell at Nate as he laid, wrapped up in an absent Alex Suarez’s jacket, still mourning the loss as the other three tried to cope, themselves.

Night had fallen on the island, and the fires outside were dying down. Most of the island occupants were hoping to fall asleep and to wake up on the plane finding out they had all had the same fucking bizarre dream. But that didn’t seem likely.

So with a growling stomach and dried tears on his cheeks, Gabe Saporta fell into a fitful sleep. 

Their first tour in what felt like ages had resulted in disaster. It was no one’s fault. It had been an accident, the crashing of their plane, but that didn’t stop Gabe from falling into a terrible nightmare of his. 

He dreamt of dying. He dreamt of a purple mist, and the king cobra appearing from the haze to speak to him. He dreamt of it rearing its ugly fangs, dripping with blood the color of wine, and hissing at him. And as the snake dissipated, Gabe found himself left with blood on his own hands. Only it wasn’t his own blood. It was….

“Gabe!” a foreign voice hissed.

Gabe jolted awake, springing up from the pillow and blinking around the pitch black of the night around them. He blinked to try to adjust his eyes until he saw the moonlight streaming down from the starry sky and lighting up a familiar face with big, fearful doe eyes and rose petal lips and a lanky form and a shaking to his thin body.

“Bill?” whispered Gabe in confusion as he was still hung up on his nightmare (instinctively, he looked down at his hands only to see them free of blood). “What are you doing here?”

William shifted uneasily. “I-I couldn’t sleep.”

Gabe blinked. “Why?”

William shrugged. “I d-dunno. Can I sleep with you?”

Gabe stared into William’s eyes through the moonlight. They seemed older than the innocent kid’s eyes he had first met in Chicago. But, even then, Bill seemed young and immortal. “Y-yeah, sure.”

Gabe shifted around on the single blanket and pillow he had to make room for William who had brought his own blanket he used to cover the both of them up. The wind howled and rustled the trees around them, and Bill shifted closer to Gabe.

“I heard noises,” William finally explained. 

“It was probably Sisky farting in his sleep.”

“Gabe, I’m serious. They were coming from the forest.”

“Go to sleep, Bill,” he said softly.

“I’ve missed you, Gabe,” said William.

But Gabe didn’t answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Because he and William didn’t do this anymore. They had grown out of whatever they had had together. William had a kid, and Gabe was engaged, and that was the way life was. William had made that perfectly clear when he had first called Gabe and told him about how Christine was pregnant and how William couldn’t leave her and how they had to end this.

And Gabe had miserably trooped through life looking for someone who could make him feel at least half of what William had made him feel. Erin had been the closest thing Gabe could have to happiness, so he grasped onto her and refused to let go. 

Contact thinned between Gabe and William until this tour. And now, William was crawling into his bed like nothing had ever dwindled out between the two of them. 

But Gabe didn’t have it in him to kick William out of his ‘bed’. He missed William Beckett, too.

 

  
VIII.

 

He was covered in a sheen of sweat. In the crisp cold of the island’s night, he shivered and found his shirt discarded by his bed before slipping it on. Composing his erratic breathing and trying to calm himself from the nightmare he had been having, Frank Iero sat up and blinked wearily around the tent that was still lighted by a nearby fire still flickering. And Frank suddenly knew why.

In the tent, with him, was only Bob Bryar who was idly tracing images of cats onto the sand in an attempt to lull himself to sleep. 

Frank chuckled softly.

Bob looked over to him. “Nightmare?”

Frank nodded. “How did you know?”

“I heard you in your sleep.”

“Oh.” Frank ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“Nah, I haven’t been able to sleep. Stressful day.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank reiterated, “I mean, you offer to fill in as a drummer for this tour, a-and this happens. I’m really sorry, Bob.”

Sighing, Bob locked eyes with Frank. They were a clear crystal pool of blue, honest and warm. “It was nothing personal, Frank, me leaving the band. There was just so much stress at the time, a-and I had other options to consider--”

“Than being in a whiny emo band?” Frank finished for him with a smug smile.

Bob rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Dick.”

Frank shook his head and clicked his tongue dramatically. “You see what happens when you tour with us, Bobby?”

Bob chuckled again, but then he couldn’t stop. And then he was laughing and Frank was laughing, and they both laughed until their sides hurt and their throats burned. In a mere couple of hours, it seemed they had forgotten how to laugh and be happy.

“Is Gerard still out there?”

Bob nodded. “He lost his brother, Frank. Of course, he is still out there.”

“We were all brothers.”

“Yeah, but Mikey and Gerard were blood, Frank. You can’t erase that.”

Frank nodded. 

This wasn’t good. Lately, Gerard had been having a problem with relapsing into old habits. He was drinking more often, and Frank had only found out that Gerard had snuck percocets aboard when he offered them to victims who had suffered with physical and strenuous injuries during the crash.

It wasn’t like Frank was disappointed in his best friend, though. He knew that Gerard had always faced this disease known as addiction, and he knew how Gerard would never be free of it but only had the power to manage it. He also knew that Gerard’s married life was not the greatest, at the moment (though the older man would never admit it), and Frank couldn’t help but sympathize with his friend.

“Go,” said Bob, “talk to him.”

“There’s nothing I can say, Bob,” Frank said in disappointment. “Words muddy things up.”

“Then, be there for him,” pleaded Bob.

Finally, stretching his legs, Frank stood up and left the merch tent, shivering in the cold and wishing he had a hoodie with him. 

Gerard was sitting beside the fire, staring into the dancing flames and smoking a cigarette, puffing it greedily as though it held all the answers to the world.

Frank approached him slowly and sat down. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t really have to. Gerard offered him a smoke from his box, and Frank accepted, lighting it up and inhaling the tobacco flavor, feeling the nicotine burn his throat and poison his lungs, and Frank realized he didn’t care. This was his second favorite addiction.

They sat like that, the two of them, in complete silence with nothing but the twirling menthol smoke between them.

After all, grief did strange things to people.

 

IX.

 

According to his watch that had survived the crash, it was two in the morning. Pete and Patrick were laying in their tent together, side-by-side, holding hands, and staring up at the stars through the openings of the merch tent. 

It was something the two of them used to do in Chicago before they became Fall Out Boy. When they were just Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump, they used to lay on roofs of abandoned buildings and watch the stars and point to constellations and wish on the stars and Pete would point out the directions to Neverland because Pete liked to live in storybooks and movies and the future that was theirs for the taking.

Patrick would laugh and anchor him to reality, but now, in the silence of the night, all Patrick wanted Pete to do was laugh and point out the directions to Neverland and offer Patrick a first-class ticket. But Pete remained quiet.

The only reason Patrick was up, laying beside his silent band mate, was because he was afraid to leave Pete awake by himself for too long. Patrick knew that stress often triggered Pete’s insomnia, and he was afraid the bass player would try something stupid due to the day’s recent events that he was currently blaming himself for.

Patrick held his hand and even felt his pulse from time to time, noticing how in synch their bodies were with each other. But their minds seemed miles apart.

“Go to bed, Trick,” Pete finally grunted in a low, raspy voice of his.

“I’ll fall asleep when you do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Pete, but he didn’t elaborate. He trailed off, staring at the stars.

Daringly, Patrick leaned closer to Pete and even ventured to put his head on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart in synch with Patrick’s own. “Which star are you looking at?”

“The North Star.”

But Patrick wished he hadn’t even asked at all.


	2. Loss of Innocence

I.

 

 

The first morning stranded on the island was hot and humid. Blinding rays from the sun beat down upon the survivors of the crash who had collectively had trouble falling asleep as the ghosts from their dead friends danced in their heads. And it was with that unease (remembrances of the bloodshed and the screams and the hollow looks in the eyes of stragglers who were forced to put a match to their loved ones’ head), that Brendon Urie awoke to his first morning on the island.

He lifted his head from the lumpy pillow he’d brought for the flight and blinked through the tropical light, trying to adjust to the sweltering heat as he brushed his sweaty hair back and contemplated where he could get a shower. It was then that Brendon noticed their tent was lacking one of its occupants.

Glancing around frantically, Brendon immediately spotted Jon in the corner of the tent, pillow less, as he had given his pillow to Spencer for his ankle. And Brendon spotted out Spencer who was sleeping like a baby.

“Jon,” hissed Brendon, “where’s Ryan?”

But Jon didn’t wake up.

Heart thumping and sweat pouring more profusely than ever from Brendon’s body, he stood up with shaking legs and ambled out of the tent, disoriented.

He had been hoping the plane crash had been a nightmare, as he was sure everyone had hoped. But it was very real. They were stranded on an island, and they didn’t know how long they’d be there for.

Surveying the coast, Brendon didn’t have time to take in the partial beauty of the island with the sun casting amber beams across the white sand. The azure ocean seemed to reflect the color spectrum of the sky as it reared forward in roaring waves and frothy sea foam. And where the tide met the coast, Brendon saw Ryan Ross standing in the epicenter, waded into the ocean to his knees, with his pants rolled up his legs and something in his hand.

Biting his lip, Brendon slowly approached where Ryan stood, hoping his heart had slowed from noticing Ryan’s initial disappearance.

Brendon didn’t say anything as he stood alongside his friend. Instead, he stole a glance at him.

Ryan Ross was near beautiful in the candescent light if the island. His thin brows were knitted together, his eyes were squinted until they were nothing but a glint of honey, and his nose was scrunched up in the way that he hated (but Brendon loved). He was biting one of his lips in full concentration. And it was only then that Brendon noticed what Ryan was doing: he was fishing!

He was fishing with a shoelace, a paperclip (because all of Ryan’s notebooks he brought everywhere had to be organized with such things), and worm he must’ve dug up in the forest early in the morning (as he had an empty soda bottle full of them).

Brendon couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all!

“Morning, Brendon,” said Ryan softly as Brendon finally acknowledged his appearance.

“Fishing, then? I don’t think I’ve seen you attempt that since--” But Brendon faltered because those memories hurt too much to bring into the open.

Ryan frowned at the cessation of his sentence. “Brendon, it’s okay, we can talk about this.”

All Brendon could do was roll his shoulders. He didn’t really believe that after all.

“You know,” Ryan continued, “I never meant to hurt you, Brendon.”

Brendon’s mouth dried up, and he felt his throat constrict. He slammed his eyes shut. “Ryan, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Ryan gaped, “Yes, it does, Brendon! It meant everything… to me.”

He shook his head and opened his eyes, glaring at Ryan and raising his voice in turn. “It didn’t, Ryan. You don’t have to lie. It was nothing more than a sexual release for you. It was nothing more than casual fucking. Don’t masquerade it as anything but.”

“You’re anything but casual, Brendon.”

He snorted derisively. “Oh? Then why was I always the backseat to your arm candy? Jac? And Keltie?”

“You had girls hanging off you, too!”

Brendon chuckled, “Funny, isn’t it, though? I’d have dropped them on a dime for you, but you wouldn’t do the same for me.”

“Brendon.” Ryan inhaled deeply. “I cared about you.”

Picking up a shell that had waded up to the shore, Brendon threw it into the ocean, watching a particularly large fish swim from Ryan’s bait. “You can fool me, Ryan, but don’t stand here and lie to yourself.”

“Brendon, how can I ever make it up to you?”

And before Brendon could stop himself, he heard the soft fear in his voice as he whispered, “Survive.”

With that, Brendon stalked away. He knew he shouldn’t have gone to talk to Ryan. They weren’t allowed to talk to each other; all of their conversations turned to arguments. And each one stabbed Brendon a little bit deeper.

It was only with death that Brendon could imagine the morticians pulling his heart out to discover the cause. Brendon could only imagine what a mangled muscle the broken heart must truly be.

 

II.

 

It was only in his dreams that he felt any release. In his dreams, his friends were alive. They were sat alongside the California coast, opening beers and laughing as the portable radio played beside them. He dreamed of their last day together, before the tour, before the crash, and before the mess. Austin Carlile woke up, covered in sweat and dried tears, as eyes he’d never see again haunted him. What seemed to startle him most, though, as he blinked into the unbearable sunlight was a face nearly pressed nose-to-nose with him.

“Alan?!” exclaimed Austin, frightened and confused at the same time. He shifted uncomfortably beneath his friend.

Beaming, now that Austin was awake, Alan leaned back on his heels and properly sat on Austin’s pelvis. He giggled, “Don’t wake up Tino.”

“W-what time is it?”

Alan looked to his wrist, where an old watch was (one that had survived the crash). “Early.”

“W-what are you doing on me?”

Alan shrugged and stared down at Austin’s bare chest. Tattoos covered most of the expanse of skin, of which included a red flower in the middle of his chest. But that wasn’t what Alan was focused on, Austin could see. He could see Alan’s eyes straying to the pale scar down the middle of it, a jagged white line that marked where his skin had been cut open to fix his heart.

With cautious fingers, Alan reached forward and lightly traced the line. Alan’s fingers were cold, for some reason, as if he had just soaked them in the ocean. Their temperature made every hair on Austin’s skin stand up until he twitched under his friend’s touch and wiggled out from underneath him.

Alan’s pale face went pink for a moment as he stared at the spot where Austin had been in. But he quickly returned to normal. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Austin sounded breathless, and he wasn’t sure why. “Why’d you want me up?”

“For a walk,” he said simply.

Austin peeked towards a sleeping Tino. “What about him?”

“We’ll leave him a note.”

Austin nodded warily and threw his shirt back on, feeling as though his surgery scar was burning.

He wasn’t sure why it had enamored Alan so much this morning. Alan had seen the scar when it had been fresh. Alan had seen it so many times that he should be used to it on Austin’s body. Feeling self-conscious, now, Austin stood up next to Alan and stared down at their sleeping band mate. Finally, Alan leaned down and wrote in the sand beside Tino:

_OUT EXPLORING._   
_-A & A_

Then, the two friends disappeared into the forest.

It was much cooler beneath the canopy of tropical trees than it was under the eye of the sun. The soil beneath their feet was moist and sank with every step they took, deeper and deeper into the thickets of trees. Here, the vegetation was green and lush and nothing that Austin or Alan had ever seen before. The deeper they trekked, the more abundant it seemed as Austin began to see trees with mangoes in them and bushes of berries.

Alan jumped to grab two mangoes from a nearby tree and handed one to Austin. “Breakfast!”

Austin smiled and took a bite from the fruit. It was sweet and juicy enough that it dribbled down his chin. He was so hungry, though, that he didn’t care about making a mess.

“Have you been out exploring all morning?” asked Austin.

Alan shrugged. “Not much else to do.”

“You really shouldn’t go alone,” he reprimanded, “What if you got lost or hurt?”

Alan smiled half-heartedly. “I’ll be fine, Aus. You worry too much.”

Austin nodded and continued to follow Alan into the forest. Eventually, the trees began to thin as the soil became more soggy, and Austin began to feel a light spray against his face.

Finally, Alan pulled back a giant palm leaf to reveal the source of the water. It was a small tributary surrounded entirely by large rocks until it looked like a strange natural fountain in the middle of the woods. What amazed Austin most was that the tributary flowed into a small waterfall that trickled down the hillside they had climbed. The roar of rushing water was music to Austin’s ears, and he happily followed suit when Alan took a seat upon one of the rocks, allowing for his feet to dangle off the edge with the waterfall.

“This is wonderful,” breathed Austin, who had seen some pretty miraculous things before.

Alan bit another chunk from his mango thoughtfully, the sugary juice exploding and dribbling down his chin. “I figured you’d like it. Thought it would cheer you up.”

Austin grinned. He felt his and Alan’s fingers brush together on the rock, but they didn’t seem nearly as icy or as curious as they had moments earlier.

 

III.

 

When Vic awoke, the first thing he noticed was that he was not at all in the same place he had fallen asleep at. He remembered falling asleep under the stars and beside Kellin at the fire. He remembered his voice echoing across the island and the way Kellin had smiled a little when Vic had finished the song.

He remembered them leaning against each other as though it were them against the world. But Vic didn’t remember leaving and returning to his own tent. After all, he could still practically hear Kellin’s breathing in sync with his.

“He carried you in last night,” Mike Fuentes spoke softly from the corner of the tent where he had been sitting.

Vic looked over. “What?”

“Kellin,” Mike affirmed for his older brother. “You fell asleep on him, last night, and he carried you into the tent.”

“Oh.”

“Tony and Jaime are out collecting berries and fruits for breakfast.”

“Where’s Kellin?” 

“He slept in his own tent last night.”

Vic groaned. He had been afraid of that. “I don’t know what to do, Mike. He’s upset.”

“Of course he is! All of his friends are dead!”

“I don’t know how to cheer him up.”

Mike shrugged. “Sometimes, all you can do is let somebody grieve.”

“B-but,” Vic chose his words carefully, “what if somebody’s been known to cope in unhealthy ways.”

“What do you mean?”

Subtly, Vic glanced down at his wrists, and Mike immediately understood.

In high school, Vic had developed self-harm tendencies when things tended to take a turn for the worse. He still had nasty scars that wound their way up his arm and elicited bad memories for him as he remembered the stinging sensation of the razorblade cutting into his wrist.

But it wasn’t himself that Vic was talking about: it was Kellin.

Kellin Quinn was known not to have healthy habits of coping with stress. When his grandmother died a year ago, Vic could clearly remember how hard the other boy had taken it. He had contained his emotions and carried on life as though nothing were wrong. But one night, Vic noticed that Kellin wasn’t answering his texts, so the former had gone over to his house to make sure he was okay. He found Kellin in his bathroom with a loaded gun pointed to his head.

Vic could remember the fear in both of their eyes as Kellin’s finger wavered at the trigger, tears streaming down his face, and his throat scratchy from screaming and crying all night. Eventually, Vic had coaxed the gun away from Kellin, and the two never brought it up again… at least, until Vic wrote a song for him about that night and the fear that had struck the two of them.

“He’ll be okay, Vic,” Mike assured his brother. “We all will be.”

“I can’t let him go through something like that again, Mike. I can’t lose him.”

“I know,” whispered Mike. 

Because even if neither of the boys would admit it, Mike knew how much Vic Fuentes and Kellin Quinn meant to each other.

After all, every lyric and every note that rang from Vic’s guitar solidified that statement.

 

IV.

 

“I should go wake him.”

“You should let him rest more.”

“It’s noon! He needs to be up with everyone else. He can’t keep feeling sorry for himself.”

“Max--”

But it was too late. Max left the small group, including Matt, to return to the You Me at Six tent. They had spent the early afternoon collecting large rocks from the island to create an SOS with. They had nearly completed it when Matt and Max’s conversation had turned to Josh, who was still asleep in the tent.

So Max marched over to their tent with a mission. Josh hadn’t spoken to him since he had yelled at Max after the crash, yesterday. But today was a new day, and Max was feeling pretty confident that, with a well rest, Josh would be feeling much better. Hopefully, the two of them would joke and laugh like they used to. Even though it had only been a day, Max missed Josh’s laugh. He missed his friend’s oversized teeth being exposed as his laugh rang loud for everyone around to hear the jubilant syllables that ricocheted from him.

Max crawled into the tent. “Josh, wake up!”

But Josh was already awake. He was curled up in the corner, where he had slept, and was staring at the sand, drawing random patterns next to his blanket. 

He didn’t look any better than last night. Sure, he didn’t seem angry anymore, but now he was just sad, and Max thought that was worse. The life seemed to have trickled out of his eyes, and the light that always was in them seemed to have gone out, altogether, like a candle. 

“A-are you okay?” Max asked as he crawled over to where Josh lay. “Josh?”

“I’m fine, Maxxie,” muttered Josh.

Max blinked at the foreign nickname.

“Go away.” Josh’s voice was gruff in a low-register, crackly as though he’d cried himself hoarse.

“Josh,” Max whispered in pity, “you can’t alienate your friends from you. We care about you.”

Josh let out a shaky breath, “I can’t do this, Maxxie. I can’t. D-dan’s dead.” Here, he choked up and buried his face in his lumpy pillow.

Cautiously, Max lifted a hand to card through Josh’s hair, hoping to relax the front man. “I know.”

“He just fucking died on me!” howled Josh. “He fucking can’t just do that!”

Sensing a rising anger, Max lightly massaged Josh’s scalp, watching him relax under his ministrations.

Somewhere, in the entire unfairness of life and death, Max could sense Josh was brimming with anger to let out about the cause. Life was nothing more than a game, and Josh was angry that he had cheated death instead of losing his hand, like Dan had. In that essence, Max finally called Josh’s bluff.

“Sometimes bad things happen to good people, Josh, and there’s no decent explanation for it.”

“It’s fucking unfair!”

Max shushed him and continued to play with his hair. “No sense shouting, Josh. There’s no one here to blame for it.”

“There’s God,” said Josh.

“God didn’t kill Dan.”

“He did,” he continued, “He put us all here to kill. God’s a sick bastard.”

“Don’t do this, Josh,” pleased Max, “don’t lose faith.”

“Faith is nothing more than hoping it’s the other guy who dies today and not you.”

Max frowned and ceased messing with Josh’s hair. He was scared for Josh. The way he was speaking and the way he sounded so jaded just wasn’t right. Josh didn’t deserve to feel this low. Josh deserved way more.

“It’s my fault,” said Josh, “I was hoping anybody else, besides me, would die in that crash.”

“We all were. We’re all a little selfish.”

“God just hit me where it would hurt the most.”

Max blinked, and that’s when it all connected in his head. According to Josh, God had played his aces and won during the plane crash. The bet had been Dan Flint.  
It all made sense now: Josh had been in love with Dan.

“Josh…,” said Max slowly, “you should really stop hiding away in here.”

With Max’s hand no longer in his hair and his tears evaporated, Josh snarled, “Easy for you to say. You’ve never been in love, Max.”

Slamming his eyes shut, Max told himself not to cry in front of Josh as the other man hit him where it hurt the most.

 

V.

 

Gathered in the Cobra Starship tent, the seven musicians ate their pitiful lunch which consisted of berries and macadamia nuts that had been collected on morning excursions from various people. William sat beside Gabe who was eating in a strange silence. Everyone kept glancing at them with questions in their eyes, but neither of them could answer them. William wasn’t sure why Gabe was being quiet, so he tried to avoid Sisky and Butcher’s interrogative eyes.

Finally, William decided to break the silence. “D-did anyone else hear strange noises last night?”

The group shook their heads.

“C-cause I did,” said William. “They were coming from the forest.”

“You were probably just hearing things,” Butcher suggested through a mouthful of macadamia nuts. “First night on the island. Of course, you’re going to be scared, Bill.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Butcher shrugged. “Everyone knows you’re a spazz.”

William’s jaw nearly dropped. He knew, of course, that there were still tensions in the band as they had only agreed to this reunion tour because they all owed Pete a favor for signing them all those years ago and giving them the time of their life in the band. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy to complete this tour, but William thought, in the face of crisis, that Butcher and Sisky might pull together and not hate him so fervently. “I’m not a spazz, and I’m not making this up!”

Sisky and Butcher had thought that William was turning The Academy Is… into a dictatorship, and they felt like they could no longer express any creative directions for the band. Eventually, they had suggested that William go solo because that’s all the band had turned into: William Beckett and the Academy, not The Academy Is….

William didn’t agree with them. There had been tensions, to begin with, and he had only been trying to keep them together by pointing them in a particular direction. He had thought they were all friends.

“This wouldn’t be the first time you played a joke on someone,” sneered Sisky, “What did you do to Gabe for all those years?”

Immediately, lunch quieted. William shifted uncomfortably as he noticed the way that the entire Cobra Starship clan became insanely interested in the berries in their hands. Ryland had begun to whistle, Nate was chewing as loudly as possible, and Vic kept stealing glances at Gabe and biting her lip.

Without even looking at Gabe, William abandoned his nuts and berries and stole out of the tent.

He was torn between screaming and crying.

How could they all think that? How could they all think that William had played with Gabe and strung him along? How could any of them think that giving up Gabe had been easy?

Nothing could ever compare to that horrid day.

William could still remember the phone call that had ended it. He also remembered the week he had spent in bed after the call, the depression, the anxiety, the weight loss, and the number of tissue boxes he had used up.

He wandered to the other side of the beach where the rock letters, SOS, stood. Taking a seat upon one of the larger rocks, William tried to will away the tears that threatened to pour down his face. He slammed his eyes shut tight and wished that he could be stronger than this. He wished that Gabe was easier to give up.

“Are you alright, William?” a voice he hadn’t heard in quite some time asked.

William glanced up to see Brendon Urie, hands shoved in his pockets, standing awkwardly beside the rock.

William sniffled. “F-fine. You?”

Brendon shrugged. “This tour’s really kicked up some skeletons.”

Perfunctorily, William laughed. “You could say that again.”

“Things used to be much simpler,” sighed Brendon as he sat on the neighboring rock, “We used to have so much fun. Remember, Bill?”

William nodded and smiled genuinely at some of the memories he had touring with Panic! At the Disco. “Remember when we played truth-or-dare, and Ryan had to streak in the middle of a blizzard?”

Brendon’s laugh rang melodiously. “And when Sisky and Butcher played seven minutes in heaven?”

“What about that time we caught Carden having phone sex with his girlfriend?” 

“And when Jon ate the worm at the bottom of the tequila bottle?”

William and Brendon sat on the rocks laughing until there was a stitch in both their sides and they felt breathless and euphoric. “I’ve missed you, Brendon.”

“I know,” he said, “And I know things are tough- believe me- but all things must pass, right?”

Slowly, William nodded. “I know. I just, I’ve made so many mistakes, Brendon. I don’t know if things like that just go away.”

He squeezed William’s shoulder. “Mistakes can be corrected.”

“Can they be forgiven?”

But Brendon’s silence rang deafeningly upon William’s ears.

 

VI.

 

“Just try it!”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like my food to be staring at me while I eat it, thanks.”

“Frank,” growled Bob, “you cannot survive on this island as a vegetarian.”

Bob was in the middle of cooking a fish he’d caught on the fire for the three of them. It wasn’t much, but he knew it would be more nutritious than snacking on measly berries for their entire stay on the island- however long that might be. 

“You know,” continued Frank idly, “they say seaweed is a stress reliever. So, really, you’re driving me to eat it.”

“ _I’m_ stressing _you_?!” exclaimed Bob, nearly dropping the fish into the fire. “Frank, I’m trying to keep you alive. You’ll be skin and bones if you don’t eat fish. Protein bars and hummus don’t grow on fucking trees, here!”

Frank rolled his eyes. “I can survive without protein bars. I have nuts.”

And when Frank giggled at his own double entendre, Bob shook his head in disgust. “You’re fucked up, Frank.”

He shrugged. “Well, isn’t that the beauty of human nature, Bobby? To be broken?”

“Psychopaths should not be romanticized like that, Frank.”

“Shut up!” laughed Frank, “You know what I’m talking about. The beauty of being human.”

“How would you know anything about that?” asked Bob dryly.

Frank ignored that statement. “Think of how resilient we are. Think of how broken someone can be, and think of how they survive afterwards. That’s beautiful, Bob. Falling apart and falling together.”

“Why?”

“You really grasp onto your individual core that way. And when you can do that, you can reach into someone else’s innermost core.”

“Frank,” Bob said blatantly, “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. Just eat the damn fish!”

Frank shook his head. “No can do!”

But, as Bob was slicing his fish into pieces to eat, Frank grabbed a handful and carried it into the tent where Gerard was sitting, a cigarette in his hand and a long-off look on his face.

Gerard hadn’t spoken all day or all night. Frank had smoked a cigarette with Gerard, last night, until they had both crawled into bed. Frank lay up through the night waiting for the other to fall asleep; but he didn’t snore once.

“I brought you food,” said Frank softly.

Finally, with a cracked voice, Gerard muttered, “I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

“Only if you eat it,” returned Gerard, both smugly and stubbornly.

Frank shook his head. “You can’t do this, Gerard. Mikey wouldn’t want you to torture yourself like this.”

But Gerard had fallen back into silence. He was biting his lip and drawing in a notebook with one of his pens. It wasn’t like the old days, though, because Gerard wouldn’t show Frank what he was drawing. In fact, he was now going to great lengths to ignore Frank who had suddenly become Public Enemy #1.

Unsure what had happened between them, Frank crawled out of the tent and returned the pieces of fish to Bob. Ever since the initial break-up, there had been some tension between Frank and Gerard, and he didn’t know why. Of course, Gerard was more distant because of his marital issues and fights with Lyn-Z and talk of impending divorce. Of course, the band had become enemies because they had their own ‘happy relationships’. But Frank never thought this would murder their friendship; they had been on top of the world. 

To put it in someone else’s better words, how wrong we were to think that immortality meant never dying.

 

VII.

 

His ankle fucking hurt. It was red and swollen, and Spencer Smith was worried that he had done more than just sprain his ankle, what with how ugly it looked. He could barely walk or stand and was stuck in the tent, keeping it propped up on Jon’s pillow and trying to avoid the hot sand that would only irritate it more.

“Ryan only caught one fish,” Jon amended as he offered Spencer bits of fish and fruit for dinner.

Spencer shrugged. “I’m not real hungry, anyways.”

Jon sat beside Spencer to eat his portion (which was slightly smaller than Spencer’s), and they chewed in silence for a moment. They hadn’t talked much since yesterday during the initial aftermath of the crash. Although they had conversed and joked around, they hadn’t talked about the same serious issue they had discussed earlier.

But Jon and Spencer were always, first and foremost, friends. So their conversations didn’t turn into shouting matches as Brendon and Ryan’s mostly did.

“You should take a painkiller,” Jon pressed.

Obstinately, Spencer shook his head, lips pursed. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Personal preference.”

“You never had that before.”

“Well,” said Spencer, cattily, “that’s what happens when you leave for two years!”

Immediately, Jon silenced and muttered an apology to his friend.

It wasn’t going to be easy, rebuilding their relationship. Past mistakes remained strong in both of their memories, but Jon was determined to work on it. He was determined to figure something that would mend their ties. He missed the past, and he missed Spencer.

Nothing was going to be easy on this island.

But the only thing Jon actually had control of was earning back Spencer’s trust and receiving forgiveness. He couldn’t control when they would leave the island or how nourished they would be at the end of their stay. But he could control how much nourishment his helpless friend received, and he could control making his stay more tolerable, even with an injured ankle.

Jon didn’t much care for his own well-being, at that moment.

There was much more at stake.

 

VIII.

 

He felt safe in her embrace. She was warm and beautiful and refreshing on the island. In that moment, Alex Gaskarth swore he was in love.

The sun was beginning to set on the island sending fluffy pinks and syrupy oranges to mix upon the horizon, the colorful clouds swirling around the citron orb. Cascading on the beach where they were sitting, the sun bathed them in warmth and a kaleidoscope of colors they would not have received in the city.

“You’re beautiful, Tay,” said Alex because the moment gripped him so.

She smiled feebly. “I don’t feel it.”

Tay did, indeed, look rather sick that evening. Her skin was pasty, and she kept disappearing to throw up at odd hours of the day.

“You are.” Alex kissed her nose and watched her face turn peony pink as she giggled, a lyrical laugh that resonated somewhere against Alex’s heartstrings.

But Tay wasn’t a dumb girl. She wasn’t stupid or shallow or naïve. Tay was an independent girl and not some pretty object for Alex to admire during their isolation. “You’ve been distracted.”

He shrugged. “Been thinking.”

“Tell me!” she insisted. She had been noticing Alex’s diverted train-of-thought, even before their plane crashed.

“It’s about Jack,” concluded Alex, “Something he said to me.”

“What’d he say?”

“He told me it in confidence.”

Tay nodded understandingly. “Then, talk to _him_.”

“Well--” Alex played with his hands. “He said it to me… w-when he was drunk! He doesn’t remember.”

“Was it bad?”

“Embarrassing.”

“Talk to him!” she pleaded again, “You two have this incredible bond, Alex, and I’m sure something like that won’t break it. He cares about you too much to let that happen.”

Alex smiled, though he didn’t feel much more consoled. “Thanks, Tay.” He kissed her softly on the lips and stood, walking away to hunt out Jack.

It wasn’t that Alex hadn’t thought about loving Jack the way Jack had confessed that he loved Alex. Alex had thought about it on multiple occasions. But every time Alex felt at the eve of arriving on a conclusion about Jack, he would be swept off his feet with a nice girl who he could properly marry.

Because Alex wanted that: a white picket fence and a marriage and children and a dog. He wanted eternal love and rings around their finger and falling asleep next to each other every night.

With Jack, Alex wouldn’t be afforded those luxuries. With Jack, their careers got in the way of any romantic feelings between the two of them.

Alex loved Jack in a selfish way, see. He loved Jack in a cannibalistic way that would threaten to consume him whole if he didn’t control his first instinct to kiss his best friend. Alex loved Jack in a way that would ruin them. Most things Alex touched became ruined. Lisa, for example, had been perfect. Alex had ruined her and broken her heart and broken his, in the process. If Alex broke Jack, Alex wouldn’t be able to survive.

He had to keep himself from succumbing to his selfish urges if he wasn’t going to lost Jack forever.

Eventually, Alex found Jack, standing on the edge of the forest with a penknife in his hand that he was digging into the tree.

“What’s up?” Alex asked.

“Drawing.”

“On a tree?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Duh. The cavemen did it, Alex.”

“I didn’t realize Neanderthals had gone back in style,” joked Alex.

Jack stopped carving into the tree to chance a glance at Alex. Immediately, Alex could see a light brighter than the sun in Jack’s eyes, and it made his heart and stomach flip. He physically ached for Jack, but he knew he had to keep his head.

It had been much easier before Alex knew that Jack reciprocated his feelings. 

“Well, I wasn’t sure how long we’d be here,” explained Jack, “and if we were going to be here a while, I wanted to give future scientists a glimpse at who we were.”

“Future scientists?”

Jack nodded and pointed at one of the crude drawings. “This one is me doing your mom, Alex. Scientists should know that in the future.”

“What’s that?” Alex pointed to the one below Jack nailing his mother.

“That’s you without your hairspray,” said Jack, “because once it runs out, you will be terribly unfuckable, and scientists can study how a hair product made you fuckable in the first place.”

Alex laughed, “Why does it seem this tree is less for scientists and more for offending me?”

Jack shrugged. “You can’t argue facts, Alex. And that’s what this tree is.”

So desperately did Alex want to push Jack against the tree and kiss him. He wanted to pull his hair and yank at his clothes and bite his neck to make sure everyone knew that Jack was his.

But then Alex thought of how he might break Jack. Jack was fragile and unadulterated, and he deserved so much better than Alex’s selfish, destructive love (even if he didn’t know it).

Trying to distract himself, Alex pointed to another drawing. “What’s that?”

Jack’s face turned stoic. “That’s Zack.”

Alex squinted to see the small engraving carved along with the picture:

  
_R.I.P._   
_Zack Merrick_   
_Musician, Best Friend, and Brother_   


 

IX.

 

With twilight on the horizon, Pete used the opportunity to sneak away from the noise of the campground. All day, he had used his authority to organize the creation of an SOS, had various people gather nuts and berries, and he even organized a fishing group (with help of Ryan Ross’ perfected method).

But Pete was drained, now, physically and emotionally. The doings of the day had kept the haunting images of Joe and Andy out of his mind, but now the ghosts were back in full haunting mode, and Pete didn’t want to show Patrick how weak he really was. Patrick still looked up to him and was depending on him to carry them through this desolation, and Pete didn’t want to disappoint the only person who believed in him.

So he snuck off to the woods for some quiet time to think. When he was in the tent at night, with Patrick, Pete couldn’t think. He was afraid his depressing thoughts would wake Patrick up; besides, Pete only wanted to focus on positive things around Patrick.

It was something with Patrick Stump where Pete always strived to be a better human being because of him.

He tried to think about something besides death and being stuck on this island forever, but nothing else could occupy his mind.

Things only doubled worse for Pete because of remembrances of his nightmares for the past weeks. He had been dreaming about abysses and falling into them, death and burned bodies. Pete decided he was a harbinger of doom upon them because of the dreams. It was his fault they were stranded. It was his fault Joe and Andy had died.

Pete had simply stepped on a twig when he heard it.

A piercing scream filled the night.

 


	3. Ya'aburnee

I.

 

Heartbeat resounding in his ears, perspiration dripping down his body and his already sweat-soaked hair, and blood rushing to his head until he felt dizzy, Pete Wentz ran out of the forest, interrupting his pondering stroll, to find the source of the frenzied scream from the beach. He emerged from the woods- blood on his hands from thorns, hair tangled with twigs, and welted mosquito bites- looking like a mad man. Waving his arms around and tripping over his shaking feet, Pete stumbled to the middle of the island where his form was left lambent in the light of the fires spread about the beach.

Almost at once, the group seemed to quiet, even from their separate tents, and turned their undivided attention to Pete.

His side ached from running, and he tried to catch his breath as he panted, “W-who screamed?!”

No one answered him, but they all stared.

Pete coughed and nearly choked, tasting iron in his mouth from the heated run. He spat onto the ground, crouched over with his hands on his knees before he managed to stand up straighter and repeated, louder this time, “Who screamed?”

Again, everyone continued to stare at him. Pete caught a glimpse of Patrick making his way towards him.

“I-it was a girl,” Pete explained, staring wildly around. Tay Jardine and Cassadee Pope both shook their heads looking rather anxious. “V-vicky?” Pete croaked.

Vicky-T, who had kicked Gabe and Nate out of the tent to have some ‘alone’ time with Ryland, poked her head from the tent. “You called?” she asked innocently.

“Did you scream?” Pete sounded almost hopeful.

Her brows knit together in confusion. “Why would I be screaming? Honestly, you guys give Ryland way too much credit.”

Gabe and Nate cackled maniacally as Pete stared, lost, around at the island. He had heard the scream, clear as day, and he knew it. 

“Pete? Pete, where were you?”

“Patrick, who screamed?” Patrick would never play a cruel joke on Pete. Not like this- not now.

Patrick blinked, eyes widening. Gently, he grabbed Pete’s bicep and said in a shaking voice, “No one screamed Pete.”

“I heard it.”

“Heard what?”

“Someone screamed.”

Patrick shook his head and carefully escorted Pete back to the Fall Out Boy tent where he eased him onto their ‘bed’ of blankets and took a seat beside him. “N-no one screamed, Pete. You’re scaring me.”

Pete’s mind was spinning so rapidly that he almost didn’t hear Patrick. All he could hear was the echo of the very real scream that had pierced the night only moments ago.

“Pete,” continued Patrick, “you need to sleep. I know you didn’t sleep last night. You look awful.”

Pete knew he did, but he couldn’t help it. The past week had been littered with nothing but dreams of darkness and death. The most vivid, most recent, of all his dreams had been at the airport, where he had fallen asleep. He had dreamt that he was running and had fallen into a dark trench, screaming for help, but no help came. Finally, when he landed at the bottom of the abyss, he had seen dead bodies, charred and burned, surrounding him. And when he flipped their forms over, Pete had seen Patrick, Joe, and Andy.

“I killed them, Trick,” sniffled Pete, fighting back tears as his mind reeled.

“What?”

“Joe and Andy. This is all my fault!” he lamented.

Patrick shook his head and said firmly, “It’s not. Don’t think like that, Pete. You are the only person I know who can pull us all through this.”

“How can I?” cried Pete softly, “I can’t even pull myself together! I can’t sleep, Trick. Every time I close my eyes, I see… things.”

“What kind of things?” Patrick scooted closer to Pete, knowing the older man thrived on contact. That was why he always wandered over to Patrick during a show because even the great Pete Wentz got scared every once in a while.

“Death,” he said mournfully.

Daringly, Patrick laid his head on Pete’s shoulder, closing his eyes and trying to pretend it was like old times. This was just like Chicago, he lied to himself. This was just like when Pete ended up in the hospital from his overdose and when Patrick fought alcoholism and depression. This was a battle they had already fought.

Eventually, though, Pete’s cries did subside, and he laid down, staring absently at the ceiling of the tent. Patrick was cuddled beside him, idly plucking twigs and leaves from his hair and patting it down.

His actions were so domestic that Pete almost felt like things were finally going to be okay.

It was only then that the deep yearning inside him broke open, free to dance and mingle with the other demons that occupied his mind. It was something Pete had tried to restrain for years. It was a harmful train-of-thought that he sometimes wanted to succumb to: it was the feeling of wanting to kiss his best friend, Patrick Stump.

And the thought, itself, was so, so wrong. Pete and Patrick were nothing more than best friends; they always had been. He couldn’t break that harmony between them for selfish needs. He had a lovely girlfriend and a son, and Patrick was a newlywed. They had grown-up and moved on and Pete had missed his chance.

Maybe, a few years ago, had Pete plucked up the courage, he could have kissed Patrick and maybe Patrick would have kissed him back. He thought of Chicago and of the hospital where he had been admitted and even the secluded moments in hotels and on the tour bus.

After all, it had always been Patrick who was there for him. Patrick anchored him to reality and kept him whole. Patrick helped sort the demons in his head that he so often penned out (and he even added melodies to it that made Pete’s thoughts sound a whole lot more beautiful and lovely than they really were because that was what Patrick did: he turned ugly things into perfection). Pete could remember several times when he could have kissed Patrick (almost kissed Patrick) but didn’t. And now his window of opportunity was closed. They had lives and roles to uphold. They had fame and reputations and relationships.

Sullenly, though, Pete couldn’t stop thinking about the one thing he couldn’t have as Patrick’s body suddenly seemed to burn beside him.

 

II.

 

For the second night in a row, Vic Fuentes found himself leaving his sleeping band mates in their tent and tip-toeing to the crackling fire, his bare feet crunching softly against the sand, as he took a seat beside Kellin Quinn, who had been staring into the fire for nearly an hour.

Dusk had fully settled, and the beach was silent. In the forest, cicadas chirped and owls hooted from branches. The fire cracked like a whip, and the ocean lapped silently against the beach, the frothing tide continuing to wash the beach. Dully, Vic couldn’t help but wonder if the beach could wash the blood that this island had claimed. Even after two days, sometimes all Vic could see behind his closed eyes was how much blood there had been after the crash. So much red…. How could the ocean’s waves wash away that much red overnight?

“You should go to sleep,” Kellin spoke. His voice was raspy as though the act of speaking was foreign to him.

Vic shook his head firmly. “I can’t leave you out here all alone.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You used to share your thoughts with me,” said Vic tentatively.

“Things change,” Kellin grunted. Vic could see his stoic face, ashen and unusually pale in the firelight; he could almost see the invisible wall, the guard, that Kellin had forced up around himself.

Vic inched closer to his friend and placed a comforting hand on his knee, gripping lightly. “I’m here for you.”

He shook his head firmly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” replied Vic sadly.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Kellin sharply, jerking out of Vic’s grip. “Prance around the island pretending none of this happened? Distract myself enough to forget that my best fucking friends- my brothers- died right before my eyes?”

“I’m not sayi--”

“You’re not saying that!” spat Kellin, “But you’re insinuating, Vic! I can’t just fucking forget!”

“Kellin!” exclaimed Vic, hearing the waves crash and ring in his ears as though the ocean’s noise rose with their tempers. “I’m not asking you to forget anything! I know you need to mourn, but you need to live, too. You can’t forget dwell in death and forget to live!”

And just like that, the waves roared once more before they quieted. Kellin’s face hardened, then softened, before he had thrown himself at Vic and began to cry into the crook of his neck.

Vic, startled, didn’t know what to do. Kellin had wrapped himself so tightly around him that Vic could feel every beat of his heart and hear every ragged breath against his neck, breaths that sent chills down Vic’s spine. Finally, Vic relaxed into the embrace and wrapped his arms around Kellin, wondering if there was anyway they could be physically closer together.

“I m-miss them,” sobbed Kellin, “I d-don’t know what to do, Vic. W-why wasn’t it me? Why d-didn’t I die, too?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“B-but it’s true!” Kellin howled, “I c-can’t live without them. I c-can’t.”

Vic’s eyes brimmed with tears from the words falling from his best friend’s mouth. Kellin trembled against him and coated his neck in a sheen of salty tears; Vic only held Kellin tighter and shushed him and rubbed his back. There was nothing he could say to make things seem any better. He couldn’t sugarcoat this incident, and he definitely couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t there.

All he could do was rock Kellin in his arms and kiss the top of his head, praying for anything to take the pain away. After all, a broken heart was horribly destructive to everyone involved.

 

III.

 

The third morning on the island proved to be sweltering hot, muggy, and absolutely unbearable. Those who were not seeking shelter from the sun’s blinding rays in their tents had galumphed into the forest where the canopied shelter of the trees would keep them cool. Others waded into the ocean, enjoying the refreshing Pacific waters on their baked skin. 

Max sat on the beach: shirtless, barefoot and in a pair of jeans he had ripped into shorts. The tide lapped playfully at his ankles, and he leaned back, shielding his eyes from the sun with a pair of sunglasses he had thankfully packed. 

Josh was still sleeping. It was his new coping mechanism to mourn Dan. Josh had decided to waste away inside the tent. Sometimes, Max could have a conversation with him, but mostly Josh became frustrated and began yelling. He yelled things like, ‘You weren’t there!’ and ‘Why weren’t you fucking with me?’. Max didn’t really know what any of it meant, but he took it in stride because they couldn’t really afford to fight when all their lives were at stake.

He heard the crunching of sand beneath feet from behind him, and a second later, Matt had taken a seat next to him, throwing an arm languidly around Max’s shoulders and squinting towards the horizon at sea.

“Fuckin’ hot,” Matt commented conversationally.

Max shrugged. He didn’t feel much like talking.

Sighing, Matt gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I know you’re hurting, Max.”

Again, Max shrugged. He couldn’t really think of a proper response to that. How do you tell someone that you’re wholly and irreparably broken? How do you tell someone that you are also helplessly and unequivocally in love with your best friend who can barely look at you? Max thought some things were better left unsaid, anyways.

“Josh is having trouble adjusting,” he continued, “You’ve got to give the boy time.”

Finally, Max spoke. His voice was raspy and sticky with unshed tears. “I’ve given him years, Matt.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve given him years!” exclaimed Max, “I’ve been waiting and waiting since I was sixteen fucking years old, Matt. Fuck’s sake, I’ve been pining for over five years! I’m fucking pathetic.”

Matt blinked, surprised. “Five years? That’s a long time.”

“Tell me about,” said Max grumpily, “I’ve just been waiting, thinking to myself, ‘Oh, he’ll come around.’ But he doesn’t. I sit there pining for one look, one smile, one fucking laugh; and now, it’s like I don’t even exist.”

“He’s mourning.”

“Because he was in love with Dan fucking Flint!” Max swallowed hard, feeling the tears brim his eyes. He wiped them away pathetically. “And it’s not like I can’t handle rejection, Matty, because I can. I just don’t want to lose him as a friend.”

“You and Josh are best mates,” Matt said, “I can’t imagine a falling out over this.”

“I’m in love with him,” Max finally admitted in the daylight. “I’m so fucked.”

 

  
IV.

 

His back was a sleek shade of red. It stung and burned, and a sheen of perspiration dripped down it; it was closest feeling of aloe that Jon had for his sunburned back, but the hours of labor he had poured into the project would pay off, in the end. Jon had slowly developed a mantra, while stranded, to think selflessly. He knew he couldn’t save everyone, but he could make it count towards the one person that truly mattered.

“Spence!” Jon called, crawling into the tent, where Spencer was laying with his ankle propped on Jon’s pillow. His fingers were folded together on his stomach, and he looked absolutely bored. Jon tried not to stare too long at Spencer’s shirtless figure, but it was hard not to. Sure, he’d seen the other boy shirtless dozens of times in their dressing rooms before shows, but Jon had never seen _this_ Spencer.

Spencer had certainly grown into his body from a chubby teenager with puppy fat still on his stomach and cheeks. He had slimmed down dramatically. His chest was now taut muscle and planes. His hipbones poked out sharply from the loose-fitting shorts, and Jon tried not to stare too hard at the dip of his pelvis.

Sure, Jon had seen Spencer shirtless dozens of times. Fuck, he had felt every contour and plane of Spencer’s naked body. But Jon couldn’t stop staring in a futile attempt to relearn Spencer’s body and memorize the lines that were once his.

“Spence, I’ve made you something.”

Spencer sat up. “Where?”

“Outside.”

“I can’t walk.”

“I’ve got you,” Jon told him.

Before Spencer could even think up a protest, Jon had crossed the tent and leaned down to gather Spencer in his arms.

The younger boy even felt different in Jon’s arms than he remembered. He was lighter, more defined, in Jon’s arms. He was also irrefutably not Jon’s.

Spencer had not been Jon’s for a long time, and Jon didn’t really expect that to change with this incident. But he yearned so desperately for Spencer just to laugh with him and smile at him like they used to. Jon wanted to know they’d be okay- even if they couldn’t be together anymore.

Trudging past the tent, Jon carried Spencer towards the edge of the forest where two large trees stood fairly close together.

It had taken some time, as Jon had been up since dawn collecting what he needed and fashioning it together, but he had finally created a gift for Spencer that meant something. It was a hammock made from a blanket and string. It wasn’t much, but it was sturdy and offered a place for an injured Spencer to lay out in sun.

“You built this for me?” Spencer gaped, blue eyes glistening like the waters of the Pacific.

Jon nodded and deposited Spencer gently onto the blanket. “I want to fix this, Spencer. Everything I did, I’m ashamed, and I’m sorry.”

“This can’t change the past,” Spencer whispered.

“I know,” said Jon, catching Spencer’s gaze and holding it. The shades of blue in his eye had ceased to change; they were still the same, and Jon was glad to see a familiar glow in them. “No one can do that. But this can be the start of the future- o-of moving on.”

Spencer bit his lip. “Things won’t be the same.”

Jon shook his head frantically. “I don’t want things to be the same. I was horrible to you. I want this to be a new chapter. I know we’re not what we used to be. We’ve grown up; _you’ve_ grown up. But I definitely want us to be friends.”

Slowly, a smile split across Spencer’s face, and he wriggled around in the hammock, patting it and offering Jon a spot.

Jon climbed in, but he couldn’t quite get comfortable. Everywhere his and Spencer’s body touched felt like it burned. His back, too, was sunburned and it pained him, but he could endure that for Spencer’s sake. Because Spencer wanted company, and who was Jon to ever deny him that?

 

V.

 

Finally alone with his thoughts, he trudged through the cool forest in the island, making his way past large trees and feeling his shoes sink into the rich soil beneath his feet. He could hear the trickling of water coming from a distance, and Gerard followed the noise, hoping to find a spring of some sort. He was hot and thirsty and had deserted the beach and shook off Frank and Bob in order to get some peace of mind.

With everything that had happened, Gerard had not had the perfect opportunity to think clearly. Sure, he had brooded; but it was hard to brood properly when Frank was constantly in his face or trying to force food down his mouth. Or even when Frank wasn’t there he still managed to make a looming presence in Gerard’s voice. Gerard wasn’t stupid; he heard Bob and Frank whispering about him in the dead of night when they thought he was asleep.

Gerard didn’t sleep much, anymore. Mostly, when he tried, all he could hear was Mikey screaming as the plane went down. And Gerard helpless to save his brother.

When he reached a boulder, he took a seat, mentally drained from today (and it was only noon). 

Gerard didn’t like the toll this island or his loss was taking on him. His mind was beginning to scare him. It raced and raced, playing on a loop of his brother’s screams before his death, and the smell of burning flesh followed him everywhere. He dug the heel of his palms into his eyes, begging the image to dissipate.

This island was making Gerard fucking sick.

He had nearly smoked his allotted pack of cigarettes (and was pulling one out now), and he was desperately wishing for some booze. Addiction was clawing at him, and his only healthy addiction (coffee) was nowhere to be seen.

But it wasn’t necessarily the island’s entire fault that Gerard was smoking more and had frequent urges to drink. It was his life before the tour. It was his life after the band began to fall apart.

It was his marriage. Gerard had been fighting with Lyn-Z for months. The only thing that kept him from storming out of the house every night when the fights got bad was Bandit, asleep in her room, unaware of the tension of their marriage. It wasn’t that Lyn-Z was a terrible wife; she was the best wife, Gerard was sure.

The thing with Lyn-Z was that she had other commitments. She had a band, too, and she was not willing to let it die like Gerard had. Gerard thought letting the band go and pursuing his art career (whilst staying home more often) would convince her to do the same. Instead, Lyn-Z took the knowledge of Gerard remaining home with their daughter and ran with it. She scheduled recording time in the studio, begged for a tour to be booked, and left on a plane. It wasn’t that Lyn-Z was a terrible wife; it’s just, she wasn’t the wife Gerard had been looking for after all.

Gerard didn’t necessarily want a settled down marriage where they had the same monotonous routine everyday. But Gerard also wanted a marriage where he saw her from somewhere other than an internet photo or behind a webcam on Skype. Gerard wanted someone to be there for him.

With a ragged breath of smoke, Gerard thought of Bandit. He fucking missed his little girl. He hoped she didn’t understand what had happened to daddy. He hoped she didn’t cry every night he wasn’t home.

Gerard remained on the rock for quite some time and smoked two more cigarettes.

 

VI.

 

“That’s awful. What are you doing? What does Rian see in you?”

“He’s going to see me kick your ass in two minutes if you don’t shut up, Gaskarth.”

“But that’s completely wrong!” Alex exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. “Where’s the moat?”

He and Cassadee were perched at the edge of the tide, on their knees, building a sandcastle. Tay was sick in the tent and had been throwing up all morning, while Jack and Rian were attempting to catch fish for dinner. Rian had insisted that he was the ‘breadwinner’ and insisted Cassadee not move a pretty finger of hers (even though Cassadee was a much better fisher than Rian), and Jack, in an effort to mock Rian, had insisted he was manly enough for Alex to catch them dinner.

“Alex, not all castles need moats. Most of them were on hills, anyways.”

“We’re not on a hill! We’re near water; we need a moat,” insisted Alex, “Ryan Ross even has a fucking moat.”

“Ryan Ross is fucking weird,” Cassadee said with an eye roll.

He shrugged and began digging the moat himself. “Do you ever see you and Rian living together?”

“What does that have to do with moats?”

“Nothing, I just wondered.”

She sighed and gave in, helping him dig the moat as well and feeling the coarse wet sand burrow beneath her fingernails. “Maybe. I don’t know. We’re both busy all the time.”

“So busy you can’t make time for each other?”

“Alex, being in love isn’t always about being with that person all the time.”

“It should be.”

“Is that why you brought Tay on tour?”

It was his turn to sigh, and he leaned back on his haunches, shaking the sweat from his hair and squinting up at the blistering sun. “Maybe. I don’t kno-- why is this about me?We were talking about you and Rian.”

Cassadee held up her hands in defeat and laughed, “Calm down, Alex. This isn’t an interrogation. I just wondered… I mean, why are you even with Tay?”

Alex blinked. “What do you mean?”

“What do you see in her?”

“She’s awesome.”

“Awesome? Is that all you can think of?”

“She’s pretty?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“A statement?”

Alex!”

“Okay,” Alex said sheepishly, “Tay is pretty, b-but I guess, none of those reasons really justify why I’m with her.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Cassadee, “I like Tay. She’s fun. But do you two have anything in common besides being singers and in a band?”

Alex bit his lip, thinking. He felt himself blushing and wasn’t sure why. “Not that I know of.”

“Look, Alex, this is all I’m going to say on the subject.” Cassadee’s tone had switched business-like. “There are people in the world you are meant to be with, right? I think Rian’s my soul mate. Who do you want to be with forever?”

Only one name came to mind, but it dried up on Alex’s tongue in the hot sun.

 

VII.

 

Exhausted and spent, Ryan Ross tripped into the tent to escape the scorching heat of the day. His pasty arms had been burned pretty bad while he had been fishing with a few other survivors. They had only caught five fish to share between all of them, but they were all hoping there’d be enough fruits and nuts to go around. He recalled Rian Dawson and Jack Barakat talking about knowing how to catch and cook crabs, but he couldn’t be too hopeful that they’d find any.

Ryan had nearly forgotten what hunger was. Back in the States, he led a life (not necessarily of luxury) but of great comfort. He had the necessities he needed, and he always had enough extra money to spend in bars and expensive restaurants as he pleased. This was something entirely different.

He couldn’t remember the last good meal he’d had. He was already sick of eating fish, he didn’t like the taste of nuts, and he wished there was more variety on this island.

His stomach growled in acquiescence.

“Oh.” Ryan halted from the entrance of the tent as he saw Brendon crouched over a notebook. “Sorry for walking in on you….”

“It’s fine.” Brendon was clearly not fazed by Ryan’s presence, and he didn’t seem to be holding any grudges from their last argument.

Feeling more comfortable, Ryan stepped in and took a seat beside Brendon. Fleetingly, he glanced over at the page of writing, “Song lyrics?”

Brendon nodded, immersed in his work. “Somebody had to do it.”

Ryan tried not to look so hurt from the statement, so he grunted a noise of agreement. “C-can I see?”

Brendon shrugged.

“You saw all of me,” Ryan whispered a reminder at the number of song lyrics he had showed to Brendon in confidence, bearing his soul to the boy.

Brendon didn’t argue with the predicted, ‘That was then; this is now.’ Instead, he handed the lyrics over for Ryan to read.

Ryan accepted them uneasily, feeling as though he were forcing his way into Brendon’s mind and heart. He felt as unwanted as a burglar.

_Don’t try to sleep through the end of the world,_   
_Bury me alive ‘cause I won’t give up without a fight._   
_If you love me, let me go._   
_‘Cause these words are knives that often leave scars._   
_The truth of falling apart,_   
_And truth be told, I was never yours._

Finally, Ryan understood why Brendon had relented so easily in letting him see the lyrics. They were about him. Brendon was still struggling with writing bitter goodbye songs for Ryan. It’s not like he hadn’t noticed. ‘Always’ had stung when he heard it, at first. So had ‘Hurricane’ and ‘Memories’ and ‘Trade Mistakes’ and the several other songs that Brendon had painstakingly scribed for Ryan.

He wasn’t an idiot.

What hurt the most, though, was seeing it in plain sight: _And truth be told, I was never yours._

Part of Ryan wanted to rip this paper up and throw it in Brendon’s face. He wanted to scream and shout at him that everything between them had meant something for Ryan. It hadn’t been a joke and a mistake; his only mistake had been leaving Brendon.

Instead, playing nice, Ryan asked nonchalantly, “What’s this about? Sarah?”

Brendon raised one of his thick brows in an ‘ _are you fucking serious_ ’ manner. Finally he muttered, “No, it’s about you. But you already know that, you narcissist bastard.”

Ryan blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You know it’s for you! You know all my songs are for you!” shouted Brendon. “You fucking called me when Vices was released just to rub it in my goddamn face that I can’t get away with you.”

“Brendon, that’s not what the call was about,” insisted Ryan, but his voice was drowned out by Brendon’s yells.

“So maybe I’m not the greatest lyricist in the world, maybe I’m not as fucking saintly and holy like you are, My Lord, but I am fucking trying to pick up these pieces without you!”

Ryan shook his head frantically. He didn’t want to fight with Brendon. He was so sick of fighting. He was sick and lonely, and all he wanted to do was hold Brendon and apologize for leaving in the first place.

But Brendon had snatched back the notebook. He didn’t even need to say it; his eyes said it all. So Ryan exited the tent feeling lost and hopeless on this island, more so than ever before.

 

VIII.

 

They were still laying there, swinging beneath the shades of the palm trees and staring at the clouds that drifted by. Jon and Spencer had hardly moved from the makeshift hammock all morning. Several times, Jon thought of leaving to help fish or something, but then Spencer’s eyes clenched and he bit his lip in pain from his ankle. Jon had fought incessantly with him about taking a painkiller, but Spencer didn’t want to hear any of it. He snapped at Jon every time they were mention. After another moment’s of silence, Jon began digging around in his pocket. “I brought something for you, then.”

Spencer opened his mouth to inquire, but Jon had placed a small baggie in his lap. It was wrapped neatly; and inside, Spencer could see the weed in it.

“How’d you get this on the plane?” 

“It was a private plane, Spence.”

He bit his lip, obviously trying to hold back some excitement. “A-are we going to smoke it?”

“Only if you want to.”

He smiled again. “I want to.”

Expertly, Jon rolled up a joint and lit it. In a matter of seconds, their hammock had turned into a little hash den- a little piece of heaven.

Spencer giggled and lolled his head onto Jon’s shoulder after a few more hits of the joint. It sat between his fingers, burning slowly down, as he watched the way Jon exhaled the smoke from his lungs. Spencer’s eyes watered because he hadn’t smoked in a while, and his throat was sore and burned from coughing so much. But the drug had definitely made the pain in his ankle subside.

He let the joint fall to the ground and nestled closer to Jon.

“We could just live here, Spencer,” Jon was saying, articulating slowly.

Spencer shook his head and simply giggled into his friend’s shoulder.

“We could!” Jon insisted. “We’ve got water and food, a-and Ryan only needs fed twice a day.”

Spencer whined, “Ryan will get fat.”

“Fine,” Jon said, “we’ll eat Ryan.”

“Do you think he’d taste good?”

“Nah, I think he’d taste like the seventies.”

Spencer wrinkled his nose.

Jon laughed.

“C-can’t even feel my ankle,” mused Spencer.

“I think I ate it,” Jon said.

Spencer whined, shaking his head and trying to reach his foot to see if it were still there. Jon just kept laughing and laughing, nearly tipping the hammock. Neither of them had felt this great in a long, long time.  


IX.

 

The third night of being stranded proved to be the hardest for Alan Ashby, so far. Not only was he beginning to worry about never being found, but he was also worried about the toll the island was taking on Austin and Tino. After the death of their friends, Tino had hardly spoken, he refused to eat, and when he took random walks down the beach, all Alan could see was a walking skeleton. Austin, too, had seemed to retreat within himself, and it took Alan hours to even get Austin to crack a smile, sometimes.

He was laying awake, staring up at the canopy of stars through the openings in the tent. Alan wasn’t necessarily staring at the stars; rather, he was desperately searching the sky for an airplane.

Beside him, Austin snored softly. He was laying, shirtless, on his back, arms folded behind his head and the blanket half kicked off down his thigh. The moonlight streamed into the tent and lit up his features. In the night, Alan finally was able to appreciate Austin Carlile’s beauty. His body was warm and safe and comfortable, his chest broad (the scar from his surgery blaringly obvious), his legs long and slender with milky white thighs, and a light happy trail that disappeared beneath Austin’s shorts.

Alan couldn’t stop staring.

He wasn’t sure when or why he began to appreciate the beautiful attributes of his best friend. Things like that just sort of happened. One minute they were touring the world, and the next minute Alan was trying to memorize all the shades of color in Austin’s iris.

Austin’s eyes fluttered in his sleep, but a few seconds later he was back to snoring softly like a tugboat. 

In the moonlight, Austin’s body was painted a pale gold, and Alan desperately wished he could make his friend see that he was equally worth that. Because Austin had low self-esteem, especially because of how awkwardly tall and towering he was. Austin believed that he was abnormally large and ‘monstrous’. Alan thought Austin was the most gentle person he’d ever met.

He even looked angelic when he slept. His eyelashes gently kissed his skin, his lips were parted a fraction, and his body rose with every breath like the gentle roll of the ocean.

Uncomfortable on his patch of blanket, Alan scooted over towards Austin whose body was like a radiator in the crisp tropical night. Consciously, daringly, Alan found himself cuddling closer.

It wasn’t like he was gay, either. He’d had plenty of girlfriends and plenty of sex with those girlfriends, and he liked it. But Austin was different. With Austin, it wasn’t about sexuality. With Austin, it was like Alan meant something to the world. He wasn’t just the guitarist from Of Mice & Men. He was a person, and it was something he wasn’t used to.

Austin treated everyone with such sincerity that Alan knew this was no special treatment saved for him. It was the way Austin Carlile was. And it was so undeniably perfect.

 

X.

 

Gabe Saporta had nearly fallen into a deep sleep when he was awoken, yet again, by a lithe body sliding in beside him and a small, ragged breath against his neck.

Tensing up, Gabe squinted into the darkness, but he needn’t really. He knew exactly whose body was next to his. William’s body had become so familiar to Gabe that it was like an extension of himself. He knew how every muscle in William’s body moved, every piece of (im)perfection that dotted his pasty skin, and he was painstakingly sure he could draw canvasses, alone, of just William’s veins twisting up his arms.

And even with how familiar Gabe was with William, he was unfamiliar with this new routine of the younger climbing under the blankets with him in the dead of the night.

It only reminded Gabe of how much he wanted the very thing he couldn’t have.

“Sorry,” Wililam whispered, “did I wake you?”

“No,” lied Gabe.

“I heard more noises.”

Gabe’s muscles loosened at that statement, and he didn’t protest when William wiggled around until his head was propped against Gabe’s chest and in the older man’s tight embrace.

“What do they sound like?”

“Movement,” said William. “Like somebody walking.”

“Probably just an animal.”

“I’ve thought that,” murmured William, “but the footsteps sound cautious and sure. L-like they’re waiting for something.”

“Yeah, probably waiting to make a meal out of Sisky.”

William shook his head. “Don’t you think an animal would’ve attacked us by now if it really wanted to?”

“Maybe, it’s on vacation, too?”

William giggled, and Gabe’s heart leapt. He had missed that sound. It was like old times: William’s laughter was rich and sincere, instead of a hollowed echo of what it had been. “Gabe, we are not on vacation.”

“I know,” sighed Gabe, “but let’s just pretend, alright?”

“Pretend what exactly?”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Be a little more spontaneous, Bill. C’mon now. Pretend me and you are on a lovely vacation in the Caribbean--”

“Just the two of us?” William interrupted.

Gabe paused before nodding. “Just the two of us. And all the hotels were booked, so now we have to sleep on the fucking beach.”

“Why are all the hotels booked?”

Gabe raised a brow. “You really suck at playing pretend, don’t you?”

“Sorry,” squeaked William.

Chuckling, Gabe subconsciously tightened his grip around William. “Goodnight, Bilvy.”

The two of them paused, and Gabe could hear William’s breath hitch. The last time Gabe had called William that, the two had still been together. They’d been lazily lounging in Gabe’s apartment, tangled up in the sheets and whispering into each other’s ears like only lovers do (and a week later, the phone call happened, Gabe thought darkly). His heart hammered, and he wondered if Bill would leave.

“Goodnight, Gabey,” William finally whispered in return. 

And Gabe’s heart literally fucking ached at those words.

 

XI.

 

Frank Iero loved pitifully.

He pined, and he got jealous easily, and he always seemed to break the things he loved most. Or, at least, that was how Frank viewed the way he loved Gerard Way. Because that was the truth of the matter: Frank had always loved Gerard, and he always would (even if Gerard seemed to have forgotten about them).

He’d loved him since he was a teenager, that Frank was sure of. And sure, Gerard hadn’t always reciprocated this feeling. He’d fought demons by himself and got tangled up in Bert McCracken. And then, when he was healing, Frank finally thought they’d have their chance to be together.

Gerard was finally healthy and able to love Frank, too. 

But then that stupid fight happened, and the next thing Frank knew, Gerard had married Lyn-Z without even telling his best friend!

And that had stung. It stung for a long time, and even Jamia couldn’t stitch that part of his heart back together. 

Frank did love pitifully, but it was such a hard thing to do: to love Gerard Way.

The wind whistled outside of the tent, and Frank rolled over, trying to get comfortable, but it was a useless feat. So he laid up, into the night, thinking about Gerard and listening to the sounds of the waves on the coast.

For better or for worse, though, Frank was asleep when a strange figure flickered in the firelight, and the ocean masked the sound of scurrying feet.

 


	4. Material Wealth and Warfare

I.

 

The bleached light of the morning sun began to spill across the white sands of the island. In the sunlight, the anemic grains of rock glistened like ivory waves that looked like a sparkling panacea when paired with the lyrical crashes of the frothy waves against the shore. The ocean’s ebb and flow pattered on down the entire coast of the island, but that particular morning, it could not be heard over the screams and shouts of the occupants.

“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?”

“WHERE IS IT?”

“THIS HAS TO BE SOME SORT OF SICK GAME, YOU BASTARDS!”

There was a tight-knit crowd standing in the middle of the tents, a circle formed as they all glared accusingly at each other, arms crossed and feet tapping impatiently against the crunching sand of the beach. Furthest to the front of the pack was Bob Bryar whose face was a pallid pink (both from anger and a shade of sunburn) and his fists were clenched rather tight. In one fist was a lone drumstick.

“Which one of you fuckers stole my other drumstick?” demanded Bob.

A few members in the crowd looked at each other and blinked, expressions blank. Finally, Patrick (who was in charge while Pete was asleep) spoke up, “I don’t think anyone here would steal from each other, Bob.”

Bob scoffed, “You don’t know that Patrick. None of us even fucking know each other anymore! Half of us want to rip each other’s throats out half the time and the other half are just fucking done! None of us wanted to be on this tour!”

Patrick frowned and narrowed his eyes at Bob. “No one made you come on this tour.”

“That’s not the point!” exclaimed Bob, “The point is, Pete thought that this tour would bring friendships back or that we’d all suddenly realize we didn’t want our bands to dwindle out and we’d all stick together for the music! That’s what you two thought, right?” He stared accusingly at Patrick who held his gaze rather steadily and confidently. “But that’s not life! Life isn’t all about the music and the fans and the money and the fame. When was the last time any of us got time to ourselves? When was the last time we could go online without being harassed or go out in public with girlfriends without the whole internet shitting itself because _we’re not fucking gay with each other_?!”

“Bob,” said Patrick calmly, “I agree with you one hundred percent, but why does that mean one of us stole your drumstick?”

“Because, Patrick, no one here likes this situation. We’re all trying to cope with skeletons in the closet.”

“If you have a problem being here, then talk to Pete,” said Patrick coolly and with an air of finality. “I’m sure he can point you in a different direction where you don’t have to lie and thieve with liars and thieves.”

The circle parted as Patrick walked away, head held high, back to his tent where Pete was sleeping. As the days stretched on, and Pete’s mental health deteriorated, Patrick had taken it upon himself as protector of his friend. They needed each other in the ways only a symbiotic relationship worked. Pete and Patrick were like two organs in the same body: the heart and lungs of the island. The living, beating and breathing organs that would fail without the other. Their relationship was like a single whispered breath. All it took was that single breath to become a red blood cell, flowing through the right side of the heart and towards the lungs; the oxygen transfer would transfer across the capillaries and back to the blood, where the heart would rigorously pump it through.

Pete and Patrick kept each other alive in the sense that the two of them were one heart and one pair of lungs and an entire collection of breaths that would span across a lifetime.

Their ‘breaths’ were nothing but collections upon collections of moments and memories that were stored away in the deeper recesses of Patrick’s mind. Because some of these ‘breaths’ were sordid and tawdry in their very nature; some of them were ghosted whispers that fell from illicit lips.

Patrick could remember three particular moments in which their literal breaths had almost become one, and the very memories left tingles along his spine that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck.

The first time, it was back in Chicago. It was back when they first met, and they had stolen Mr. Wentz’s clunker car for a weekend escape to Lake Michigan. Patrick could remember the sweat-filled carried (the air-conditioner was broke), could still hear the Alkaline Trio song that had played (I Remember a Rooftop), and he remembered the taste of gas station sweets that they had stocked up with as they could afford very little else. He remembered the feeling of the lake water lapping at their ankles as they waded into the water and the scratchy sensation of grass on their bare skin as they laid beneath a nearby tree when the sun burned too bright. He remembered Pete looking over at him, laughing and saying, “ _I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you, Trick_.”

Patrick had blinked and asked him what he had meant by that. He remembered the way Pete’s eyes had wavered like the rolling lap of the lake tide, and he remembered his friend pulling off the collection of bracelets he wore to reveal jagged criss-crosses of cuts upon his wrist. Patrick could still feel the sensation of the scar tissue against his lips as he kissed his wrists. And he could remember Pete’s ghosted breath against his cheek as Patrick closed his eyes and parted his lips, and he gasped too soon before Pete was standing up and fastening the wristbands back on like a shield.

The second time, it was on a rooftop. It was back when they had been touring for years, and they were in a hotel in California. Pete hadn’t been sleeping for weeks again, and he had been heavily abusing prescription pills. In a single moment of crazed paranoia or fear, Pete had taken an overdose of pills, and had locked himself in the bathroom under the sprinkling of the shower. Patrick had been the one who had called their manager, and the paramedics had been brought in. After a seventy-two hour examination of Pete’s sanity, he was deemed fit to avoid being sent to a ward and spent the next few days locked in solitude in his room. Finally, Patrick had felt pity upon his friend and snuck him out to the rooftop where he said, “ _I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself, Pete._ ”

He hadn’t said anything. He just looked at Patrick with his sad, tired eyes and his lips twitched in a smile. Patrick wasn’t sure what Pete had wanted to say that moment because he had definitely opened his mouth to talk, but his lips didn’t move. They simply parted themselves and inched towards Patrick’s. He could remember the hairsbreadth distance of Pete’s lips against his before the roof of the door slammed open and their manager caught them, both rather red-faced.

The third time, it had been when Pete was in the hospital. Patrick had stormed over when he first heard to yell at Pete. He had screamed and screamed at him and cried and asked him why he would ever think to do such a thing. They all thought he had been healthy; Patrick felt betrayed that Pete hadn’t felt safe enough to open up to his friend. And Pete hadn’t said anything; he simply laid there like a scolded child who knew they were in the wrong. Finally, Patrick had choked out a teary, “ _If you died, Pete, I would, too.”_

And Pete cried. He cried and let Patrick crawl into bed with him and sing him to sleep. He listened to Patrick’s heartbeat and counted his pulses and whispered promises against his neck that sounded like broken poetry. When it was all said and done, Pete had let his lips linger on the corner of Patrick’s lips a second too long, inhaling shaky breaths that hitched with anxiety, as though he were debating how many seconds it would take for his lips to fully meet Patrick’s in the middle. The seconds stretched to infinity, and Patrick finally squeaked out a good night to his friend before he rolled over and lay through the rest of the night, yearning.

They were Pete and Patrick, and they were collections of mingled breaths and clandestine moments.

Patrick sighed as he sank down into the sand beside a sleeping Pete. He glanced over the features of his friend: the jut of his nose, the pout of his lips when he slept, the curl of his eyelashes. Closing his eyes, Patrick tried to banish the thoughts and memories of those three moments, but they were there and they were ingrained on Patrick’s beating heart- the one he shared with his best friend.

 

II.

 

“What do you mean ‘we don’t know each other anymore’?” Back at the My Chemical Romance tent, Frank was blocking Bob’s entry into the tent, arms crossed and a frown on his youthful face.

Bob huffed. “You know what I mean, Frank.”

“No, I don’t,” said Frank, sounding hurt, “I thought we were friends, Bobby. Fuck, I thought we were brothers. How could you say that shit about us?”

“Because, Frank, I feel like a stranger to you half the time.”

“Whose fault is that?!” exclaimed Frank, “You’re the one who left, Bobby, don’t forget that. You’re the one who gave up on us. We called you for weeks afterwards begging you to come back. And even when we stopped calling, we never gave up on you. We always hoped you’d show up at one of our doors or one of our shows and things would be back to normal!”

“That’s just the thing, Frank!” shouted Bob, “Normal? What the fuck even is normal in this band? Gerard hardly talks anymore and refuses to eat. And all you’re doing is following him like a fucking puppy because you’re too pathetic to admit you’re still in love with him even though you’ve got a family and so does he!”

Frank gaped at Bob, and his bottom lip trembled as though he wanted to cry or hit Bob or both.

Bob tried to level his voice. “Normalcy was never actually a norm in this band, Frank, I know that. But fuck, don’t we have the decency to at least be honest with each other anymore?”

“I didn’t steal your drumstick, if that’s what you think,” spat Frank.

“This isn’t about the drumstick anymore!” Bob ground out, “This is about how we all fucking fell apart, and we can’t keep pretending things are the same as they used to be! You talk all about the beauty of being human, Frank, but you can’t accept what the fully means. Being human is about being hurt, Frank. Get used to that.”

It was a single second of passion and anger and unadulterated hurt. Bob had pierced Frank so deep and pierced such a sensitive issue that Frank felt gutted. He felt like he had bled out in front of his best friend, had bled out all his innermost secrets, and now Bob was unraveling the stitches that Frank had so desperately tried to cover the wound with. It was a singe second of bleeding and pining and hurting, and Frank punched Bob right in the nose.

The blonde man yelped and stumbled back, hands automatically clutching his nose and groaning in pain. “What’s wrong with you?” he screamed.

“What’s wrong with me?” Frank growled, “What’s wrong with you? We were brothers, Bobby. I loved you! How could you just fucking rip me open like that?” Tears began to well in Frank’s eye, and he blinked furiously in attempts to dispel them. “Maybe I am still in love with Gerard, okay? And maybe that makes me fucking pitiful and pathetic. But don’t stand there on your soapbox and think you’re better than me, Bob. At least I have something to live for. At least I can love. You? You’re fucking heartless!”

Frank spat and stormed away, making his way towards the forest where he finally let his tears flow freely under the crisp canopy of the palms. He felt like nothing more than a broken doll, raggedy and unloved, and abandoned on an island that had once felt like potential. 

He was painfully wrong, though, when he remembered how he’d said there was beauty in a breakdown.

 

III.

 

Noon had fallen upon the island rather quickly. The initial shock and anger of missing items had breezed over, but it had, by no means, been forgotten about. Tensions were running high, and William felt even more unwelcome as he thought back to Sisky’s snide comments and thought about the painful memories of being forced to hurt Gabe for the better. He avoided the Cobra tent and his own tent (except in the dead of night when he snuck over to Gabe for security and comfort of the nostalgia). Most of William’s time spent on the island was spent wandering around and exploring new places. Already, he had found a small waterfall, a cove along the coast, and a giant cliff that he was still building up the courage to scale.

He was just on his way towards the cliff when a hand reached out from behind and grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him back rather viciously.

“Hold it there, Beckett.”

William bit his lip nervously and looked up at the daunting figure of Victoria Asher, standing akimbo over him and glaring down as though she had crawled right from the River Styx, itself. 

“You and I need to have a little talk.”

“I-if you’re going to yell at me, Sisky’s done that enough for everyone,” he muttered.

Vicky rolled her eyes and hoisted William’s gangly figure to its feet, giving him a brief dust-off before grabbing his wrist and pulling him deeper and deeper into the forest until the camps were out of site. 

The forest always had a different aura than the beach, and that was why William liked it so much. The beach was so exposed and open, and William never much liked publicity like that. He preferred keeping to himself and straying towards the back of the pack, organizing his thoughts without witnesses. It was also cooler in the forest, and the crashes of the waves were muffled until the dominant soundtrack was the trickling of the water that eventually fed into a waterfall.

“We need to talk about Gabe,” she said very business-like.

“I-is he okay?” William asked quickly.

“Of course he is. I mean, physically he’s fine. But mentally, Gabe’s always been a little fucked up, Bill.”

William frowned because he knew she was right. Gabe had always been broken, and he had always self-medicated with booze and women and occasional drugs. He knew it wasn’t necessarily that Gabe was broken, but Gabe had a fear of dying alone and being alone, especially being alone for too long with himself and his thoughts.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“You.”

Immediately, William felt a pang in his chest as though he’d been hit by a bullet. He knew Vicky hadn’t meant it to sound so bitter and accusatory, but William couldn’t interpret it any other way with a guilty conscience.

“He loves you, Bill,” Vicky went on, “He’s in love with you.”

“I didn’t realize….” William lied in a whisper, eyes flickering to his feet.

Vicky laughed sardonically, “How could you not? He pines after you, Bill. It may not seem that way, but he does. The only time he ever looks happy is when he falls asleep next to you.”

“Gabe and I aren’t like that anymore.”

“Why?”

“B-because,” stuttered Bill, almost flabbergasted that Vicky just didn’t seem to understand, “because I have a kid a-and Christine. A-and Gabe has Erin--”

Vicky interrupted, “Gabe only has Erin because he doesn’t think he’s allowed to have you.”

“I-I have a life, Vicky!” William tripped over his words. “I’m a father. I’ve got a role to play. I can’t….”

“Can’t what?” Vicky’s voice sharpened. “Can’t sacrifice it for your own happiness because you’re afraid of what people are going to say about you?”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is!” Vicky stomped her foot. “You’re afraid what people will say if you leave your girlfriend for Gabe. You’re afraid that Christine won’t let you see Evie. But you don’t realize you’re hurting them both by staying with her. You’re depriving Christine an opportunity to find someone who really loves her, and you’re going to force your little girl to grow up in a loveless household. She’s going to grow up and think that you two is what true love looks like, but that’s a fucking lie, Bill, and you know it!”

“What would you have me do?”

Vicky sighed, “I don’t know, Bill. I’m not forcing you to be with Gabe, but he’s hurting without you. And you’re hurting without him.”

“I know,” croaked Bill, “but I’m scared.”

“Be that as it may, but whatever you decide, you better stick with, Bill,” warned Vicky as she turned on her heel. She tucked her hair behind her ear and glanced back at him, standing gauchely in the middle of the wooded thicket. “Because I’ll personally kill you if you break his heart again.”

 

IV.

 

He sat moodily in the tent, staring at the same patch of sand that he’d been staring at for an hour. With no will to move or even to eat, Brendon had been sitting in the tent with racing thoughts that only ran more and more depressing as the minutes ticked by. Mindlessly and numbly, his fingers danced down the cover of his notebook, and he closed his eyes to pretend it was a piano. He missed the piano: the tinkling tunes, the inviting melodies. He remembered his mother used to play him the lullaby version of ‘Beauty & the Beast’.

That had always been one of Brendon’s favorite Disney movies, along with Aladdin and The Little Mermaid. He could still remember all the words from the soundtracks:

_Tale as old as time; true as it can be_   
_Barely even friends_   
_Then somebody bends unexpectedly_

Brendon felt a pang in his heart as his mother’s sing-song voice echoed in his head as she played the lullaby for her little boy. He’d never expect children songs to spell out his pain for him just as well as his own lyrics, but there it was in his memory.

The crunching of sand behind him alerted him to another presence. He looked behind him and saw Jon helping Spencer limp into the tent before he offered Brendon a pitying look (as he had heard what happened) and retreated back to the handmade hammock.

“Hey,” Spencer said timidly as he crawled over to Brendon and sprawled out on a pile of nearby blankets, propping his injured ankle up on pillows. “How are you doing?”

“Empty.”

“It was just one page--”

“It was the one page that aptly summed up how I felt about him, Spencer!” exclaimed Brendon. “Those were my lyrics and my feelings, and I showed them to him, a-and he fucking stole them!”

Spencer blinked. “What?”

“He was the one who stole the page from my notebook.”

“How do you know?” gasped Spencer.

Brendon shrugged. “I don’t know. He was mad, I know he was. He was pissed that I could fucking write something so hurtful about him. About us.”

“B-but Ryan doesn’t really have an room to be pissed at you, Brendon. They’re your words, a-and he’s trying to fix things. Maybe they won’t go back to the way they were, but maybe you two can be in the same vicinity as each other and not turn it into a shouting match.”

Brendon ignored Spencer and jeered, “You know, he’s the king of fucking double standards. I can’t write what I like about him, if it’s anything that he doesn’t approve of, but he can pen out hate to me?” Spencer opened his mouth to ask, but Brendon continued, “‘Lie to the Truth’?” he snorted, “More like lie to yourself, you fucking prick.”

“Brendon, the break-up was hard on everyone--”

“ _Why are you defending him_?” Brendon yelled, and he regretted it the moment he saw Spencer flinch from hurt. He shouldn’t yell at Spencer. Spencer was the one who stuck by him through thick or thin, even if he had been Ryan’s friend first. Brendon murmured out an apology, “I’m sorry, Spence. I just-- I need Dallon, here.”

Spencer hummed in acquiescence. Dallon was healthy for Brendon, that they both knew. He spoke openly and honestly of what he thought about what Ryan had done to Brendon, and he spoke openly and honestly of how he thought Brendon was handling it. If Brendon was being moody and unreasonable, then Dallon told him so and cheered him up. His laugh was contagious the way Brendon’s used to be when they had first started out.

“Ryan’s trying,” Spencer said calmly and placed a comforting hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “I don’t think he stole your page of lyrics. He’s not like that. Whether the songs are about him or not, Ryan loves your lyrics, Brendon.”

“How do you know?”

“Because when you wrote ‘I Have Friends in Holy Spaces’ he couldn’t fucking stop talking about it for a week!”

Brendon sighed and leaned back, resting his head on Spencer’s lap and closing his eyes and his best friend threaded his fingers through his hair. Ever since the crash, his hair had been horrible as he could not style it into its usual quiff. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Spencer,” he moaned pathetically.

“I know,” pitied Spencer, scraping his fingernails against Brendon’s scalp and earning a pleased groan in return. “But things will work out. I mean, look at Jon and I--”

Brendon cracked an eye open, lips twitching into a crooked smile. “What about you and Jon?”

Spencer blushed furiously. “I just meant that we’re getting along again. Best friends and all….”

Brendon snorted. “He’s fucking head over heels for you, Spencer.”

“He has a wife!”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “But who do you think he really writes his songs for?”

Spencer bit his lip, but the only response he could manage as an opposition was muttering out what sounded very familiarly like, ‘Northern Downpour’.

 

V.

 

He swallowed another capsule with the aid of one of the few energy drinks that were left in their supply. It flowed down his throat, and he immediately felt better with a placebo feeling. Jack had been consistently taking the pain pills he had been allotted due to his injury. Because it had not been professionally done, Jack could still feel pain from his injury, and Tay was explaining how they’d have to change the stitches so they wouldn’t get infected. He was grateful for her help, but he didn’t want to be constantly reminded that he was a liability for the band now.

Not to mention, sometimes if he didn’t eat enough, the pills seemed particularly strong. He didn’t have a mirror, but Rian sometimes told him through worry that his pupils were dilated and would ask how many pills he took. Jach, of course, always took one.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught sight of Alex pecking Tay on the lips and walking towards the forest. Within a split second, Jack had jogged over to his best friend.

“What’s up?”

“The sky,” Alex said dumbly and laughed at his own terrible joke.

Jack rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “What’re you doing?”

“Collecting fruit,” said Alex, “Tay’s been sick. I think it’s from all the fish we’ve been eating. With out luck, we’ll all end up with mercury poisoning.”

Jack marveled at all the little ways in which Alex showed his intelligence. Apart from his lyrical genius, Jack always thought it profound the way Alex used extended vocabulary in everyday conversations and could talk for six hours about the universe and falling stars. But Jack also marveled at the way, during that conversation, Alex could throw in dick jokes and retweet a meme. He liked how dimensional Alex was, especially when they were around each other.

Alex was like a book that Jack never had time to read, that he kept placing back on the shelf a little bit at the time, edging closer and closer towards the climax and the ending, but savoring every word while it was still unread.

“Wish we had more variety,” commented Alex idly as he plucked a mango from a tree, surveying whether or not it was ripe and biting into it. The juice dribbled from his lips and down his chin, and he offered the fruit to Jack.

Jack accepted it and bit into the mango as well. It tasted sweet, and subconsciously Jack wondered if this was what Alex would taste like right now. After all, even though he was delirious, he had an inkling of what he had said to Alex when he thought he was going to die. In fact, Jack knew exactly what he would’ve told Alex if he had been on the verge of death. He would tell him how he loved him and beg Alex to love him back.

Because it was so very pathetic the way that Jack loved Alex. He was pining, all the time, for his best friend. And so it would be in that same pathetic character that Jack would beg for Alex to love him. He knew Alex to be perfect and wonderful and too perfect and wonderful for him, but he had high hopes that maybe their friendship was stronger than either of them supposed.

He couldn’t help but hope vigorously as he bit into the fruit again and savored the flavor against his tongue.

And maybe it was the pills or maybe Jack had finally cracked, but he couldn’t stop staring at Alex licking the sugary remnants of the mango from his lips. He couldn’t help but try and memorize every feature on Alex’s face and envision it meshed against his face in a heated frenzy of passion and just a bit of curiosity.

Jack was reckless like that sometimes. He was reckless and impulsive and just a little bit crazy. He was daring and a little high from the pill, and he dropped the mango to the ground. Without a second thought, he moved towards Alex, pushed his best friend against the mango tree and kissed him full on the lips.

He could feel the muscles in Alex’s face twitch in surprise. He could feel his eyebrows raise and his eyes widen, but Jack didn’t dare open his eyes to face reality. Instead, he held onto the seconds that ticked away as Jack got to explore this forbidden fruit of his best friend. He ravaged Alex’s mouth, sucking and nibbling furiously as though this was their final minutes, but Jack was truly hoping to convey the message of how fervently Jack needed and wanted Alex.

And then… the seconds turned into minutes, and Alex was reciprocating. He was reaching up and tangling his hands in Jack’s hair and tugging it with surprising desire. His breaths were deep and ragged, nothing but guttural groans, into Jack’s mouth as Alex practically writhed against the tree. Every time his back scraped against the bark, he gripped Jack’s hair tighter, and the latter felt dizzy with each passing minute.

Alex’s lips did, indeed, taste like mangoes. He was sweet and nothing that Jack had ever wanted or had before. He knew he was damning himself with every movement of their lips together, but he couldn’t stop. Already had he committed this original sin and already had he fallen from heaven.

Vaguely, in Jack’s pill-addled head, he thought of Alex to be some sort of angel that he corrupted with his lips of perjury.

Jack breathed in another groan from Alex’s lips who had properly succumbed to Jack and what they were doing. Jack’s fingers dug animalistic into Alex’s hips, some part of his mind lavishing the idea of leaving his mark on Alex.

But just like that, reality struck.

Suddenly, Alex pushed Jack away, shaking his head vigorously, and trying to find the right words to say.

Jack stood there, mouth agape, and in a daze.

“Y-you--”

“Alex,” Jack said. He wanted to say all those things he had said in delirium. He wanted to repeat them with confidence and let Alex know all the secrets he had locked up. He wanted to tell Alex that nearly dying had impacted him so greatly that he couldn’t waste another moment lying to both of them. But silence fell from his lips instead. 

“I-I’ve got to get back and see how Tay is doing,” stammered Alex.

Jack nodded. “Y-yeah, I should….” But the words and petty excuses that fell from his lips fell deaf on Alex’s ears as he was already retreating from Jack and scurrying back towards the campsite, while the taste of mangoes danced on Jack’s tongue.

 

VI.

 

The island’s weather, around two, took a dramatic turn for the worse as though mirroring the moods of many of its occupants. Gray skies swirled around with cyclone clouds, and the waves crashed against the shore with much more brutality as though even the ocean were boiling with rage.

Seeking refuge from the high tensions, Frank had explored the coastline, walking along the shore and kicking up sand as though that were the answer to all his problems. Eventually, his meandering had taken him to a small cove about two miles down the coast. It was a small niche in a cliff where the water thinned out until it was nothing more than a shallow inlet. As Frank trudged further into the cove, he reached a point where the water was no longer there; it was nothing but dry cave, and he sat on a rock before pulling out his pack of cigarettes and plopping one in his mouth, lighting it up and watching the smoke billow towards the oncoming storm.

He sat like that for some time, thinking over all the things Bob had said to him and what he had yelled to Bob in return. Internally, he winced as he thought of how both their words had sliced like knives, dagger tongues dueling bitterly. Maybe what Bob had said was true: maybe they all were a little fucked up and lost beyond belief. But Frank was also right because he knew they’d find themselves eventually. 

The island was playing tricks on all of them, it seemed. Together, they were lost in a house of mirrors.

He let the smoke escape from his mouth, savoring the nicotine flavor dancing on his tongue. He hadn’t smoked in a while as he had been so worried about Gerard’s state-of-health. But Frank was sick of worrying about everyone else when it was apparent that no one gave a shit about him.

Once upon a time, they had written anthems for the dying hearts of the world. He wondered who was going to pen himself lyrics dedicated to his own shriveled organ.

Wind blew into the cove mercilessly and threatened to put out his cigarette. He curled himself up and tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, shivering.

It probably hadn’t been such a good idea to leave the campsite without telling anyone where he was going, but Frank had always been childish and impulsive and had every right to brood alone for the time being.

“Hey,” a quiet voice croaked from the mouth of the cove.

Frank jumped and dropped his cigarette onto his leg, burning a hole through his already ripped up jeans. He brushed the ashes and the butt off of him and turned to look at Gerard, who was standing at the entryway with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He was standing with all the pressure on one of his legs; and through the gray-toned light that filtered into the cave Frank could see how hollow Gerard seemed. His hair was untamed as it stuck up and looked rather greasy, his eyes were rimmed red as though he had been crying, and he looked like a skeleton with how much weight he’d lost. His frail body was shivering as he had obviously been wandering around without a jacket for some time.

“How’d you find me?” Frank asked in a low murmur, neither angry or ecstatic to see his friend.

Gerard approached his friend and took a cautious seat beside him. “I followed your footprints.”

“How’d you know I even left?”

“Bob told me,” said Gerard, “He’s worried about you.”

Frank snorted derisively.

“He is!” insisted Gerard. “He’s having a hard time adapting, Frankie, we all are.”

Frank’s heart nearly skipped a beat, and he forgot to breathe. Gerard’s breath was scratched and sore from chain-smoking, but Frank hadn’t missed the way his voice had fondly formulated the nickname, ‘Frankie’. Gerard hadn’t called Frank that in quite some time as it brought back nothing of painful memories of their complicated past that they had muddied up somewhere along the lines.

“Can I bum one?” asked Gerard.

Frank nodded and slipped Gerard a cigarette and watched his lips curl around the cigarette, remembering the taste of tobacco upon them that he had constantly kissed away.

“I only agreed to do this tour because I wanted things to go back to the way they were,” said Gerard lamely.

“I know.”

“B-but we’ve both grown up so much, Frankie,” Gerard said shakily. “I mean, I’m a father. Y-you’re a father.”

“Yeah,” agreed Frank, “Once you begin diaper duty, life never goes back to normal, I guess.”

Gerard’s lips twitched into a familiar smile. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to make jokes when we’re both miserable.”

“There’s not much else to do,” said Frank glumly, “Fuck, I miss my dogs.”’

“I miss coffee.”

….

Frank burst out laughing, and Gerard looked offended. “What?!”

“Y-you’re thousands of miles from home- from your wife and daughter--” Frank wheezed, “and you fucking miss _coffee_!”

Gerard rolled his eyes. “You seem to forget how addicted I was to it.”

“You always walked into the studio, late with Starbucks,” Frank remembered fondly, “Christ, you were a bona fide white girl.”

“Shut up!”

“Did you instagram your coffee cup?”

Gerard blushed, and Frank roared with more laughter. Eventually, Gerard joined in, and the sound seemed so foreign coming from both their mouths that it almost petered out immediately.

“I missed this, Frankie,” he said softly.

Frank smiled and looked up at Gerard, finally catching his eyes. Soon, the entire cove had dissipated around the two of them as he stared into Gerard’s mocha eyes and watched the swirl of brown hues twinkle with fondness. He so badly wanted to reach out and touch Gerard just to feel his skin and be assured that nothing had changed between them.

“A-and,” Gerard whispered shakily, “I will always love you.”

Frank leaned in closer, wanting to feel their lips brush. But Gerard pulled back. “But not now, Frankie. I can’t… now.”

He watched Gerard’s skeletal body scramble away from his with apologetic eyes, exiting the cove.

Frank tried really hard not to cry.

 

VII.

 

It was nearly three o’clock by the time Pete Wentz awoke. At first, he had been angry that Patrick had not bothered to wake him- especially when he heard the news that objects had been stolen from their tents: Bob’s drumstick, Vic’s guitar, and a page of Brendon Urie’s notebook. Apologetically, Patrick had explained that Pete needed sleep and that he was always willing to put pieces pack together when Pete could not.

Pete was thankful for that.

He laid in the tent with Patrick while a light spray of rain drizzled outside. Their fires had been distinguished as a result, but the coolness that accompanied the rain was more than welcome after the excruciating heat wave they had been sweating out the past couple of days.

“Trick?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m losing control, here,” said Pete.

“What do you mean?”

“You elected me leader of the island until we’re rescued, but I can’t even keep our stuff safe. What happens if something more important goes missing next time? Like our first aid supplies?”

“Pete, you’re fine. We’re fine. You worry too much.”

“We’re stranded, and it doesn’t seem like anyone is doing anything to rescue us!”

“Pete, I’m sure efforts are being made. We’ve got the SOS up, and we usually always have fires and smoke. A few people are even carrying their phones around trying to find signal around the island. We’re all trying.”

“But I’m not trying nearly enough,” mumbled Pete.

Patrick sighed and slowly scooted closer towards Pete. Wordlessly, he laid down beside his friend and fitted himself perfectly into his side, like a missing puzzle piece, and laid his head on his chest listening to the pitter-patter of his heart that synchronized with the rat-a-tat tat of the rain on the tent. It was something that Pete used to do, thousands of miles away and another lifetime ago: he used to listen to Patrick’s heartbeat and count his pulse.

But now Patrick was listening to Pete’s heart, and he wasn’t sure what to make of this new Patrick. Because Patrick was now confident and self-assured. He was still the same boy he’d met in Chicago, but he had grown up. And Pete was still silently lamenting the years they missed with each other while they aged ceaselessly into new people.

Their new personas weren’t necessarily a bad change, but it was something Pete had never experienced before.

“Anymore nightmares?” Patrick asked in a whisper.

Pete shook his head, but it was a fruitless lie and they knew it. He had still dreamt of Joe and Andy. But he had also dreamt of his son, Bronx, perishing in the plane crash. He felt sick just thinking about it.

“Patrick,” said Pete thickly, “never leave me.”

“You know I never would,” replied Patrick as though it were the most obvious thing in the world (and maybe it was). “You wouldn’t be able to go on without me,” continued Patrick a little dramatically. “Hemingway would never be fed. You’d drink all of Bronx’s Capri-Suns. And you’d get fat because you wouldn’t be able to stop watching Tim Burton films.”

Pete rolled his eyes and chuckled. “I’m not incompetent.”

“No,” agreed Patrick, “but you act like a child sometimes.”

“Does that piss you off?” asked Pete.

“What?”

“That you have to mother me all the time.”

“I don’t mind,” said Patrick, “A little domesticity never hurt anyone.”

Pete smiled and subtly tugged Patrick closer to him, inhaling the smell of Chicago from his best friend- the smell of home.

 

VIII.

 

Earlier in the morning, Tino had been elected to go hunt for cellphone service around the island, while Austin and Alan tried their hands at fishing for dinner. Austin proved rather incompetent at it, as he still had not caught anything by the time Alan hooked his third fish. 

“C’mon, Aus!” Alan laughed, “I’ve snagged girls quicker than you with that fish.”

Austin had been relentlessly trying to capture one particular fish, which was taunting him.

Austin shrugged. “Guess I’m just not a good catch.”

Alan frowned, almost sensing the double meaning of Austin’s words. After a mental debate, he placed down the shoelace beside the pile of fish and approached his friend, who was still trying to capture the fish. “What’s wrong, Aus?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve been acting different.”

“We all have.”

Alan shook his head. “You’re normally the strong one, Austin. You’re always the one to hold on. Now… it seems like you’re losing hope.”

Austin shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

“Talk to me?” Alan pleaded. He hated seeing his best friend like this. Because when Austin hurt, then Alan hurt. It was simple, really, the mechanics of their friendship. Austin made Alan feel like he was always the center of the universe: he laughed loudly at all his lame jokes, he bought silly costumes for Alan’s cats, he always shared his food, and he always called Alan instead of just texting him. Alan didn’t really think he deserved any of Austin’s time. Austin was a good person with low self-esteem, and Alan always felt like Austin was trying too hard to impress Alan when Alan was simply impressed with Austin Carlile in general.

He had been there when Austin’s mother had died, and Alan recognized Austin’s symptoms of grief and how he chose to express himself. It wasn’t healthy, though, because Austin grieved the way a star burned up. He collapsed in on himself.

Alan remembered Austin’s hysteria and tears. He remembered how Austin had gotten drunk and punched him, and then he had cried some more and apologized profusely as Alan tucked his drunk ass into his bed and leant Austin one of his shirts (as Austin had thrown up on his own). In the morning, Austin had smiled and thanked Alan… and had kissed his cheek.

He claimed that his mother had always kissed his cheek when Austin would stay up with her at night while she cried. It was a ‘thank you’.

Sometimes, when Alan was laying awake in the little hours of the morning, he would remember the way Austin’s lips felt against his cheek. How they had trembled.

“Nothing to talk about,” muttered Austin, “They’re dead.”

Alan frowned. He knew that; he wanted to grieve too, but someone needed to be strong and carry them all forward until they escaped this hell. “I know. We’re still here.”

“What’s the point?”

“We’re only given one life, Austin,” said Alan, “We have to live it to the fullest. And sometimes, we’ve got to live through pain.”

“Everyone I love is dead,” whispered Austin, tears welling in his eyes. “Why can’t I be?”

“Don’t talk like that!” Alan snapped. “Don’t ever talk like that!”

Without warning, Alan threw his arms around his friends neck and pulled Austin’s head down to his chest, running his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes to savor the feeling of Austin here with him, right now.

And Austin cried against his friend, body trembling and shaking.

“We’re going to be okay, Aus,” said Alan. “I’m going to get you out of here. I’m going to save you.”

 

IX.

 

By evening, the rain had subsided, leaving nothing but a mosaic of gray clouds in its place that set the gloomy tone for the rest of the night on the island. Spencer lounged lazily on the hammock, curled up in two blankets and letting the turbulent breeze swing him lethargically about. It was a calming rhythm that reminded him of sleeping on the tour bus, and he missed it.

Jon joined him and slipped in beside him, pulling the blankets tighter around the both of them to keep the wind from breezing between them. They lay there in silence, and Jon hummed a tune he claimed he was working on called ‘Me and You’. Spencer’s conversation with Brendon about song muses rang in his head, but he tried to beat it out of his mind.

They weren’t like that anymore. Jon and Spencer had grown up and had lives. Jon had a wife, and Spencer… had broken up with his girlfriend, Haley, over a pill addiction he wouldn’t admit to anyone but Brendon.

“How’s your ankle?” asked Jon.

“Hurts.”

“Still won’t take a pain pill?” 

Spencer shook his head defiantly.

Jon nodded understanding even if he didn’t truly know. “How about some more pot?”

“How much do you have left?”

“About one bowl.”

“I don’t want to smoke all your weed.”

Jon laughed, “Spencer, if I don’t smoke it with you, then I’ll smoke it with Ryan, and he can’t handle his pot. Remember when we went up to the cabin, and he got high?”

Spencer giggled, “Yeah, he kept calling the bonfire Jon and cried when it went out.” 

Chuckling, Jon said, “That’s why I never offered Ryan anything stronger.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well….” Jon bit his lip. “Do you want to know a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you promise not to tell?” Jon sang playfully.

Spencer laughed and gave Jon a playful shove. “Tell me!”

“Before our honeymoon, my friend gave me some shrooms. B-but Cassie felt anxious about taking them, so we didn’t. A-and, well, I’ve got some.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “I’ve never tried shrooms.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m not giving you hallucinogens, Spencer.”

“Why?”

“B-because,” Jon spluttered.

“You’d do them with Ryan but not me?” demanded Spencer.

“These are strong shit, Spence.”

“I can handle it,” said Spencer. He wanted to say that if he could handle the percocets, then he could handle the mushrooms, but he didn’t think that would help his case.

Besides, he needed distractions from the inviting thoughts of taking painkillers and how there was a whole bottle to take if he so much as wanted.

Jon was a perfect distraction.

Jon and drugs? An even better distraction.

 

X.

 

“I’m sorry.”

Max looked up from wide eyes from the fish he was eating, a stray piece of meat dangling from the corner of his mouth. It fell out of his mouth when his jaw fell open as he saw Josh standing over him with a sheepish look on his face.

He looked exhausted, despite all the sleeping he had been doing. His face was sunburned from falling asleep out in the sun, his stubble had grown into a fuller beard, and his hair was rather curly from the lack of hair products. A white tank hung loosely from his body, and Max frowned at that. Josh had never been fat, but he had always had a little pudge to him. Now, he looked as though he were losing weight too fast.

Max offered him fish, which Josh gingerly accepted before sitting beside his friend. 

Max stuttered out, “W-what do you mean?”

“For being horrible to you,” clarified Josh as he took a giant bite of fish as though he hadn’t eaten in a few days (which he probably hadn’t, Max reminded himself). “You’re my best mate, Max. I’ll never forget that.”

The weight of the words ‘best mate’ crushed down upon Max as he thought dolefully how Dan had been more than a best mate.

Max accepted the apology wordlessly and returned to his fish, almost downtrodden.

Matt sensed the tension and butted in, “So how much longer you reckon we’ll be here?”

Josh and Max shrugged in unison.

“Doesn’t matter,” muttered Max, “Nothing can go back to the way it was.”

They had lost Dan and Chris. Nothing would ever be the same without them.

“I still want to write music,” announced Josh through a mouthful of fish.

“You want to continue the band?” asked Matt surprise.

“It’s all we’ve got,” said Josh, “It’d be an insult to Dan and Chris not to continue it. Music’s all I’ve got.”

Max felt like that had been a slap in the face to him.

Because it was music to Josh that mattered and not Max.

“I actually think some songwriting would clear my head,” said Josh, “Want to help me tomorrow morning, Maxxie?”

Max smiled, and he caught the sight of Matt out of his peripheral, pitying him and the way his heart leapt at how Josh looked at him.

  
XI.

 

Night was beginning to fall as the sun dipped below the horizon. The syrupy purples and pinks trickled down towards the ground and seemed to melt into the ocean. Salty spray from the waves christened the campsite with a refreshing aroma that combined with the smells of the bonfire as the subsided rain had allowed the occupants to restart their fires.

Brendon sat alone at his, as Spencer had fallen asleep in the hammock with Jon. Of course, he would wake them before he went to sleep and tell them to return to the tent, but Brendon didn’t want to spoil Spencer’s happiness.

Spencer hadn’t been happy in quite some time. In fact, he had been miserable and had turned to pills which had further ruined his life. It was good that he had Jon, now, because Jon understood Spencer in a way that Brendon and Ryan didn’t. Spencer laughed with Jon and was himself around Jon. His eyes crinkled up, his voice squeaked from happiness, and he often got stitches in his side from laughing so much. Jon was the best option for Spencer, right now.

It was just unfortunate that Spencer’s happy ending had to be conceived in a dire time.

Brendon, however, was far from any sort of happy ending. He was sitting beside the fire, desperately trying to remember the lyrics he had penned so carefully only a day earlier.

“ _Don’t try to sleep through the end of the world_ ,” recited a voice behind Brendon.

He turned to see Ryan Ross standing beside him, silently asking for permission to sit down. Against his better judgment, Brendon nodded and let him sit down.

Ryan peered over at the blank page as Brendon began writing down what he was saying and continued, _“Bury me alive ‘cause I won’t give up without a fight. If you love me, let me go_. ‘ _Cause these words are knives that often leave scars. The truth of falling apart. And truth be told, I was never yours_.” He whispered the last line like a secret.

Brendon finished writing it and stammered out, “H-how did you remember all that?”

“You’re a brilliant songwriter, Brendon,” Ryan said honestly, “I think that’s better than all the songs I’ve ever written.”

Brendon swallowed as Spencer’s voice rang in his ears: _northern downpour._

“Ryan, you were a brilliant songwriter, too. I don’t know why you’ve stopped.”

“I didn’t stop,” said Ryan, “I just stopped publishing my music. I write everyday.”

“Why?” asked Brendon, “Why’d you stop?”

He shrugged. “It became too personal. That much was evident when we released ‘Northern Downpour’.”

Brendon furrowed his thick brows. “What do you mean?”

Ryan laughed, “Don’t act like you don’t know, Brendon. That song was for you, and everyone knew it.”

“I knew it,” said Brendon, almost frustrated, “I just never knew what it was about.”

“It was about how much you meant to me,” explained Ryan, “About how much you still mean to me. And maybe some of the lyrics are a bit puzzling or a bit fucked up, but that’s how you make me feel, Brendon.”

“I fuck you up?”

“No, you make me feel fucked up. Like I’ve been addicted to drugs or something. Like I’ve gone crazy. Like I don’t know who I am anymore unless you’re running through my head.”

“Oh.”

“I never wanted to give up on us,” whispered Ryan.

“But you did.”

Brendon swallowed hard and blinked tears from his eyes before changing the subject through a sticky voice, “Th-thanks for remembering my lyrics.”

“I didn’t steal your notebook, Bren,” Ryan said.

“I know.”

“I did break your heart,” he observed with sorrow.

Brendon shrugged and put his brave face on as he replied coolly, “Like the song said, it was never really yours.”

 

XII.

 

He snuck out in the middle of the night, long after Vic had fallen asleep. Kellin needed time to himself away from the prying eyes of the Pierce the Veil members, all pitying him because his best friends had all perished. Kellin didn’t want pity; he wanted an escape. He wasn’t used to handling this kind of baggage by himself.

Of course, he had Vic. He would always have Vic, but Vic had been despondent since the discovery that his guitar had been stolen. Their were other acoustics salvaged on the island, but Vic had a certain connection with that particular guitar. It was the one he wrote all his songs on, and it had been with him through better and worse.

Kellin liked solitude. He liked exploring the deep recesses of his mind that most people were afraid of. Part of him liked embracing the monster that was within everyone. He liked the idea of beauty in the tragedy of the fallout. This was the fallout, and Kellin was one sonnet away from a Shakespearean tragedy.

It wasn’t that Kellin was insane or often had volatile thoughts, but he did yearn for escape. And his methods of escape weren’t always the healthiest. He could remember the night when months and months of stress had piled up, when it had finally crashed down when his grandmother had died. The bottle had broken, and Kellin was an open scroll for everyone to see.

He hated being vulnerable. 

The only one he felt comfortable being weak around was Vic, but he hated being selfish and consuming the other boy with the demons in his head. Whenever he remembered the pain in Vic’s eyes when he had seen Kellin with the gun to his temple, his heart broke.

Vic was so important to Kellin, and he would never truly understand because he didn’t believe himself deserving of anything better than a miserable, lonely life.

The inky night consumed Kellin as he walked along the perimeter of the forest, careful not to delve too far into the abyss around him and end up lost. But he did wander a little ways off from the campsite, towards a clearing that he had never seen before. In fact, Kellin could never seem to remember the paths of the forest. It was like an intricate labyrinth that the island kept rearranging with every passing day.

He squinted and saw a rock that looked adequate to sit on and perhaps smoke a cigarette (even though he had been in the process of quitting). Trudging over to it, Kellin tripped. Cursing and grabbing his stubbed foot, he narrowed his eyes and grappled in the dark, blindly trying to find what he had tripped on.

And that’s when he saw it, in the moonlight, a shotgun poking from the ground as though it had been crudely buried there.

He bit his lip, cigarettes forgotten, and cautiously reached out towards it. Picking it up, Kellin opened the chamber to see a lone bullet in there. The metal was sleek and smooth and cool to the touch, and temptation danced on his fingers and he caressed the trigger.

Looking around wildly, Kellin walked over to the rock and pushed it over towards the gun. He placed the gun back in the whole and piled dirt back on it before pushing the rock over it. Panting, he leaned against the rock and thought about the shotgun.

It wasn’t that he was planning on using it, but he also didn’t want to take it back to the campsite. Pete Wentz would probably throw it into the ocean. Kellin, though, he wanted to keep this his little secret.


	5. Apollo's Circus

The sun rose in the east like it always did, inching above the horizon at the same speed and with the same grace that unfolded every morning and went ignored by those who awoke with Apollo. But there was another god at play in the sky that hadn’t necessarily been given a second thought until the day’s progression led to a series of unexpected events. In fact, not a single occupant on the island seemed to realize the way that the sun had left a crimson trail behind it as it lifted itself from the horizon, desperately trying to breathe life to the west.

In fact, it wouldn’t be until much later that the wrath of Ares was finally accepted with the bloody sunrise.

 

 

 

 

I.

 

 

A violent shake awoke Max Helyer with a start, who had been pulled from a pleasant dream of London mornings from a life that felt like it had been another storybook of his life. He had been dreaming specifically of Josh’s basement, where they had spent so much of their rebellious teenage years smoking blunts when his parents were at work.

This particular dream had been almost a surreal retelling of the summer days they spent down there, laughing and dreaming big. They would leave the sliding door open and turn the sprinklers on outside, enjoying the light spray of water whenever the breeze blew just properly so. Josh’s dog would come down and lick their faces, panting in their ears and occasionally running outside to frolic in the sprinklers.

But with one rude nudge, Max was pulled from those poignant memories and reminded of the unreal reality that he was stuck in: stranded on an island where two of his best friends perished and where one could hardly look him in the eye anymore.

Surprisingly, it was that friend who could hardly hold gaze with him anymore who was waking him up. Out of his peripheral, Max saw that Matt was still sleeping, head buried into his raggedy pillow, soft snores issuing from the space between nose and cotton.

“Whas’goinon?” Max slurred dumbly in his half-awake sleep as he squinted up at Josh.

He looked like a fallen angel standing over Max. His body was blocking the sun, eclipsing it from Max, and a fuzzy ring of light was shaping his frame and almost igniting him and heralding him as a sun god. A pale red peeked from the sun’s blinding rays as though the light had been tainted when it dropped a seraph from the sky.

“Borrowed a guitar from All Time Low,” muttered Josh in a husky morning voice as he held up the aforementioned instrument, a beautiful acoustic that Max recognized as Alex Gaskarth’s for ‘Therapy’.

“For what?” asked Max.

“For songwriting, you git,” chuckled Josh as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and the two of them hadn’t been fighting for the past five days and Josh hadn’t been grieving over the loss of a dead lover.

“Why?”

Josh shrugged. “Don’t you wanna?”

“I d-do!” Max scrambled up from the blankets, shivering slightly in the chilly island dawn before snatching his jacket and bundling up, trying to blink away the last remnants of sleep on his eyes. “B-but… isn’t it odd timing?”

“Yes,” said Josh impatiently, “but I explained it to you last night. You said you were game.”

“I am,” Max said sheepishly, “but I didn’t think you were being serious.”

Josh’s’ murky brown eyes bore into Max’s, and he blinked embarrassingly away from his friend, afraid of judgment from the heavens. “I would never lie to you, Maxxie,” whispered Josh.

Silently, Max trailed behind Josh, still shivering from his light jacket (as he had thought they would be spending their early days of tour in Melbourne and not a seemingly uncharted island). Josh didn’t instigate conversation as he walked Max to where he wanted them to write, which turned out to be a miniature archipelago a few miles down the coast where rocks jutted out sporadically from the ocean. There were two large rocks close to the coast- one of which Josh climbed up on.

He patted the one beside him and smiled large at Max (the goofy, toothy smile he used to hone on those English summers). “Come on, then!”

With a little more difficulty, given that Max was much smaller than Josh, he managed onto one of the rocks and perched himself carefully enough that he could balance the small pen and hotel notepad they had brought with them.

“What brought forth the sudden burst of inspiration last night?” asked Max.

Josh shrugged, his eyes glazing over as though he were on the verging of retreating into himself again. Finally, biting his lip, he answered in a low mutter, “Didn’t want Dan and Chris to be disappointed in us.”

“Why would they be disappointed?”

Josh shrugged again. “For not living out our lives. For grieving too much for the past and forgetting how to live.”

“They’d never be disappointed,” said Max, “What’s really wrong Josh?”

Josh stared absently at a spot in the ocean, mindlessly plucking a few chords on the guitar that began to take shape and sound similar to ‘Fireworks’.

Personally, Max believed that had to be one of the finer moments of Josh’s songwriting career. It was a beautiful song; and Max had had experience with intently listening to it on repeat as he lay awake at one in the morning, yearning for his own firework that would never explode.

Sometimes it pained him to think that Josh was living through the heartbreak and hell that his lyrics painted. Sometimes Max cared more for Josh’s feelings than he did his own selfish, unrequited ones. Sometimes Max’s heart beat so incessantly for Josh that he wondered how Josh could not spot the time bomb pattering vigorously beneath his chest. Sometimes his heart ached.

“Dan,” Josh finally said, his shoulders sagging but his fingers continuing to pick out the riff. “M-max, I-- we-- he and I… we were a _we_.”

Max frowned. “I don’t und--”

“He and I,” clarified Josh, “we were together.”

Max blinked, feigning stupidity. “Oh.”

Eventually, the guitar riff petered out as Josh buried his face in his hands, guitar tucked between his arms and his stomach. “A-and we were fighting before he died.” Josh’s voice was thick, but he refused to cry. “A-and I said wretched things to him, Maxxie. I said awful things to him, and I never apologized. _And now he’s dead_!”

Max swallowed a lump in his throat. After all, confessions always hurt in broad daylight more than they did at night. The only difference was, at night you were allowed to let the tears fall without humiliation. “I-I’m sorry, Joshy,” whispered Max honestly, tears brimming his own eyes in their desperate path to escape. Max was heartbroken, and even his body knew it.

“I never got to say sorry,” whispered Josh.

“I’m sure Dan knows,” Max told his best friend consolingly, “When people love each other, Josh, things like that are often left unsaid, anyways.”

Josh looked up at Max, looking as if he was torn between shouting or crying more. After staring at Max, slightly confused, for a few more seconds, Josh shook his head and fixed his countenance.

His expression was firm as he took the pad and pen from Max’s lap and began scribbling on it in his untidy scrawl that Max was so accustomed to, he could read it even upside-down:

_The grass is always greener; someone’s past is always cleaner,_   
_But I’m a believer, but there’s a fool in all of us._   
_And if I lived a lie, would ~~you~~ someone meet me on the other side?_   
_So I can burn up bright…._

 

 

 

 

II.

 

 

The painted sunrise was finally clarified as an omen when Austin Carlile and Alan Ashby awoke to an empty tent. At first sight, it had simply looked as though Tino Arteaga had stepped out for a bath (there was a small oasis dedicated for such things), or had gone hunting for fruits. But as sun slowly revolved and the dawn had dissipated, Austin and Alan had become painstakingly sure that Tino had never returned from his explorations last night.

Immediately, Pete was alerted.

“Are you positive he never returned?” Pete asked, attentive but obviously tired as he tried to conceal a yawn.

Austin and Alan nodded.

Muffling another yawn, Pete nodded along. “It’d probably be best to make a search party, then. We don’t want one person going alone….” It only went unsaid that they were all a little apprehensive and uneasy over Tino’s disappearance. In fact, it seemed rather obvious that he probably didn’t get lost so much as something happened to him.

They had thought they were alone on the island, but perhaps they were wrong.

Both options were equally terrifying, thought Alan.

“I’m going with you,” said Austin as they left Pete and Patrick’s tent to find willing candidates for a miniature search party.

Alan shook his head defiantly. “I don’t want you going, Aus. You’ll get hurt.”

“I can take care of myself!”

“Austin, you’re not in the right state of mind!” insisted Alan, “Half the time, you’re not paying attention to what you’re doing. You don’t need this added stress.”

Austin’s eyes watered and begged. “Please, Alan? If I stay behind, I’m going to sit around worrying about you, too.”

Alan bit his lip. Austin’s eyes were always the most honest and sincere and innocent he had ever seen. Immediately, he closed his own eyes and shook his head, grinding out, “No, Austin. You have to stay here. Please… for me?”

When Alan looked back up, Austin was already making his way back towards the tent, obviously unhappy about Alan’s decision. Alan wanted to go over to him and apologize and invite Austin along and… and kiss Austin and promise him he’d return with Tino. But those weren’t Alan’s to promise, and Austin deserved better.

Eventually, Alan found Alex Gaskarth and Tay Jardine, the only other occupants on the island awake at this hour and willing to go on said search party. In trepidation, the three of them entered the forest, hoping to hunt down Tino as they desperately called his name.

“ _TINO_!” screamed Alan desperately, his mind relaying flashbacks of Austin’s face, grieving for their other dead friends. Alan, he was sure he could deal with more losses, as awful as that sounded. Alan was resilient; he was a survivor, and he would go on. Austin was fragile, and Alan knew he was at his breaking point.

“TAY!” exclaimed Alex, and Alan looked quizzically towards his partner only to see the front man rush over to his girlfriend, who was on her knees and spewing into a nearby bush. Her retches ricocheted around the forest.

“Is she okay?” asked Alan.

Alex shrugged, pulling Tay’s hair back and rubbing her back consolingly, worry plain on his face. “Tay? Shh, it’s okay….”

Her retches eventually evolved into a mix of heaves and sobs as the sickness spread through her body and played with her mind. Through tears, she shook her head over and over again, whispering Alex’s name the entire time as though it were a secret for just the two of them.

It was that single sentimental moment of Alan watching Alex hold Tay and run his fingers through her hair and kiss her temple that Alan suddenly longed for someone to call his own, as well. He thought of lovely Maddie back in America, who had broken up with him over the telephone just weeks before the tour. He could remember her choked-up voice hiccupping apologies over the phone as she repeated over and over how she couldn’t handle his lifestyle anymore.

Painfully, Alan remembered someone who could handle that. He also remembered how he had left that someone on the beach, with false promises unsaid.

“I’m fine!” gasped Tay, wriggling in Alex’s grip.

“You should go back to camp,” insisted Alex, only gripping her tighter, “You’re freezing!”

She was, indeed, trembling despite having one of Alex’s bulky hoodies on. “We have to find Tino.”

“At what cost?”

Tay’s face hardened with a tinge of insistence. “Alex, we’re all in this together. It’s like those lyrics you showed me… _we go together or we don’t go down at all_.”

Biting back a mental battle, Alan was sure, he watched Alex agree for the three of them to carry on, and he helped Tay to her feet before continuing on, keeping close to his girlfriend, holding hands.

Alan watched their entwined digits longingly, imagining how inviting Austin’s hand would be.

The thought of Austin was like a match to a coursing fire through Alan’s body that followed a complex, webbed trail of gasoline. And the more Alan thought about his best friend, the more he fed the cannibalistic flames eating at every bit of commonsense he had left. Austin was undeniably perfect, and he was something that Alan didn’t deserve.

Alan would break his heart the way he had broken Maddie’s- albeit accidentally. And Austin was just too fragile for Alan’s hands to hold. He’d burn him with every touch.

 

 

 

 

III.

 

 

Even though, Bob had clearly sent Gerard to seek out Frank yesterday and make sure that he was alright, it did not change the dynamics that Bob and Frank were still not on speaking terms the fifth day of being stranded on the island. In fact, Frank was so lost in his own mind that he refused to even speak to Gerard, the pain all to clear whenever he remembered Gerard’s fatal words of ‘not now’ that stung like razorblade against the skin.

Confused and upset, Frank once again left the tent before either Bob or Gerard awoke and decided for a stroll in hopes to come to some conclusion about where he should go in life.

He thought of Jamia. Lovely, beautiful Jamia who was at home, probably scouring the internet for any news that they had been found. He could see her biting her nails and chipping away the varnish that she always decorated them with, and he could see her telling Cherry and Lily stories, could see her calming Miles down as he cried on in the wee hours of the night while the blue light of the television wafted over her exhausted form. Frank frowned when he thought of her and all the little things he loved about her.

Because even if he loved Gerard, he loved Jamia- just in different ways.

With Gerard, he loved him like a soul mate. He loved him as though eternity had crashed the heavens into the earth in order for them to meet that day that had turned into fate.

But with Jamia, that was different. There wasn’t the substantial amount of history that his and Gerard’s relationship was littered with. There wasn’t pain and recovery and heartbreaks and heartaches. Their relationship was a different set of circumstances that had assimilated into an equal vitality for Frank over time.

He loved her, and he loved his family.

But Gerard was the only one who could ever pick the broken pieces of Frank and stick them back together.

They had grown up, and they had grown apart; and what hurt the worst was that Gerard was hell-bent on pretending the past was nonexistent. He wanted to bury his emotions for Frank because of family duty and responsibilities. Frank had those too, but he would never deny that Gerard would always be a part of him. With Gerard, Frank’s laugh was louder, his smile brighter, and his heart rampant. Jamia could never replace that hole left by Gerard’s absence; she could only coexist with it.

The only person who had understood, had even begun to scratch the surface, of those feelings Frank bottled up had been Ray.

Ray had always been the mediator of the band. He’d always been the constant variable, unchanging even in the light of turmoil. Ray always laughed and smiled and made jokes in his awkwardly clumsy, yet charming, way. Better than that, for Frank, Ray had been a therapist.

Frank squeezed his eyes shut as he wandered into a clearing of the woods, taking a seat upon a rather large rock that looked as if it did not belong. “Ray,” he groaned, letting his head drop into his hands, “I need you.”

Only the wind whispered back.

“I don’t know what to do,” continued Frank, eyes still shut as he tried to imagine Ray’s dopey smile in his mind. “I think we lost what was left of us. W-we’re trying to pick up the pieces, but neither one of us wants to yield to it.”

Frank could envision Ray rolling his eyes and muttering, “ _Stubborn_.”

“I love him,” said Frank, “I’m in love with him. B-but is that enough anymore?”

“ _You two are idiots_ ,” Ray would laugh some more, “ _You both think too much, but you never end up at the same conclusion at the same time_.” Ray paused in the amount of time it took for Frank to think what his deceased friend would say. “ _You two want the same thing. Stop fighting it_.”

“I’m going crazy,” muttered Frank to himself as he realized that Ray’s voice sounded crisper and more coherent with every word.

“ _There’s a plot on this island_ ,” said Ray.

“This isn’t about the island; this is about Gerard!”

“ _The island is playing pawns of all of you_ ,” ‘Ray’ told his friend enigmatically, voice fading out of Frank’s head. “ _Don’t think too much, Frank. Here, it’s dangerous_.”

 

 

 

 

IV.

 

 

_The plane fell in slow motion._

_Turbulence rattled the cabin, but the pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker and assured the occupants that everything was fine. Just a little storm…. Should be breaking any moment…._

_Again, the cabin shook, and the occupants bounced in their seats, gripping tightly to the armrests as though that was going to keep them safe should their plane fall from the sky._

_The plane began to shake more frequently, and the pilot’s voice stopped assuring the occupants over the loudspeaker that it was just turbulence and that everything was going to be fine. Instead, a stewardess hurried back and assured everyone to take a seat and fasten their seatbelts._

_Pete watched it from the window, eyes adjusting to the scene as though it were a slowed down version of a particularly gory movie. He watched the way the plane zig-zagged throughout the clouds, beginning a descent as the turbulence beat at the wings and tipped the plane from side to side, wind mercilessly pounding against the turbines and egging the plane further and further down._

_He saw the azure blanket of Pacific before anything else- before he noticed a small precipice of an island, before he heard the screams from his friends, and before he felt the immediate impact of the plane hitting the water in a nosedive._

_Propelled from his seat, the seatbelt kept Pete in place, and he watched several people bump their heads from his peripheral. Beside him, he heard Patrick yelp. He heard the impact of Patrick’s head against the back of the seat in front of them. He heard a groan and a series of breathy gasps that resembled hyperventilation._

_Then, Pete saw nothing but red. Crimson blood seemed to ooze everywhere on Patrick’s body; it was as though the wound on his head from the impact was spreading everywhere. There were screams and smoke and what smelled like burning flesh, but Pete could not stop watched as Patrick’s skin began to peel away until he looked like a raw and blistered skeleton._

_Patrick screamed and pleaded for Pete to help him, to save him._

_But Pete could do nothing but watch helplessly as Patrick screamed and begged for his life---_

“Pete, wake up!”

Pete awoke with a start, blinking into the harsh sunlight of the island, eyes slowly adjusting to the image of Patrick leaning over him, lips pursed as they always were when Patrick worried about Pete.

“Are you okay?” asked Patrick, eyebrows knitting together. “You don’t look so good.”

Pete did, indeed, feel clammy. He was still shaking, and he could feel the fresh sheen of sweat coating his body from the nightmare that had been haunting his subconscious for sometime. Not only did Joe’s and Andy’s dead corpses visit him when he was asleep, but now Patrick was dying in front of his eyes every time he closed his eyes.

Vigorously, he shook his head and choked. “N-nightmare.”

Consolingly, Patrick knelt beside his friend and threw an arm around him, pulling Pete against his body and running comforting fingers through his hair, even daring to dot a kiss on his temple.

Pete relaxed against his best friend almost instantly, gripping to him tight and trying to fold himself into him as though they were one being. He could remember all the times that they didn’t (and should’ve) kissed. He could remember all the chances given and chances missed. Pete never felt complete with anyone except Patrick.

His mind was running wild because Patrick was everywhere. He was in his head and against his body, his voice was fluttering softly into his ear like that of a hummingbird’s constant pattering wings, and his touch was like a feather, teasing Pete and reminding him of all the things he couldn’t have but had never wanted more in his life.

Patrick was Pete’s oxygen. Pete breathed him in greedily and never quite gave him back the same way that he found him.

Sometimes, Pete wondered if their relationship was selfish. If their entire relationship was centered around his disease and his neediness. He wondered if maybe Patrick wouldn’t be happier had he never met Pete before. Because then Pete wouldn’t have ruined the perfection that he had met. He wouldn’t have marred the pure canvas that Patrick was, and he wouldn’t have broken the fragile boy that God had placed in his hands.

God had built Patrick unfairly, thought Pete. He had built him like a glass marionette. God had expected this fragile human to carry the weight of the world (and Pete’s demons) on his shoulders, but he had designed him to shatter on impact.

In hindsight, Pete could see the impact in slow motion.

“I need you,” gasped Pete to Patrick, gripping Patrick’s sweater tighter.

“It’s okay, Pete,” Patrick hushed him, “I’m here. I’m never leaving.”

“P-promise?”

Patrick sealed the deal with the devil. “Promise.”

And Pete could see impact in slow motion, but he couldn’t stop it.

He couldn’t restrain himself as he leaned up, gripping Patrick tighter and pulling him towards him. His hands shook, and his breathing hitched only seconds before it happened. Only seconds before Patrick squeaked just as Pete finally sealed their lips together.

It was better than anything he had ever expected, and Pete painstaking wondered why it had taken him this long to do it.

Patrick’s lips froze at first, his shaky breaths cautiously tumbling into Pete’s mouth. However, eventually, Pete could feel Patrick’s body relax and conform to his. His lips answered back unsurely and shyly, allowing Pete to take claim him and dominate the direction of their movements.

Pete kissed Patrick like they were dying. Desperately, his lips tried to capture and memorize every detail of Patrick whose lips tasted like sweet papayas and salty ocean water.

Fisting Patrick’s sweater, Pete pulled him flush against his body until he could hear the erratic thumps of Patrick’s heart and feel them resonate into his own body as though they finally were one being.

Needing a breath, Pete finally pulled away, laying his forehead against Patrick’s and keeping their lips a hairsbreadth distance away. Finally, he opened his eyes, piercing Patrick with a gaze that hopefully conveyed his message of how much he needed and wanted Patrick and _this_ \-- whatever this was.

Patrick’s eyes were a soft baby blue that Pete had written an abundance of songs about. They blinked innocently back at Pete, but there was an obvious pain lurking in the corners of the irises.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Pete.

Promptly, Patrick started sobbing.

 

 

 

 

V.

 

 

It was noon when the search party returned from the jungle. Alex led Tay back to the tent, still holding her hand and whispering soft, caressing words into her ear that would hopefully make her feel better. Breaking away from the couple, Alan walked dejectedly back to his own tent, where Austin was sat waiting for him.

He looked up eagerly when Alan sulked in. “So…?”

Alan shook his head and slumped to the ground. “Didn’t find him.”

Austin’s face fell, and Alan slammed his eyes shut so as not to see the pain on his best friend’s face, knowing there was nothing to do to save him from the horrors of reality. “W-what?”

“We didn’t find him,” Alan repeated with a wince, feeling more and more like a failure with each passing second of silence that unfolded between the two of them.

But he had known it walking into the forest that morning: something drastic had happened to Tino. After all, Tino had always been exceptionally good with directions and had a knack for knowing his way around, almost on instinct. Tino hadn’t gotten lost on the island, Alan was sure of it. Something happened, but he didn’t want to be the one to have to break the news to Austin and break his heart in the process.

However, the predicted pain on Austin’s face did not shine through; instead, Alan watched Austin’s eyes glaze over with determination, shadowy grief that lurked in the corner of his eyes refusing to come to life. Alan didn’t know which hurt worse: watching Austin’s grief unfold or watching him become numb.

Wordlessly, Austin stomped out of the tent and made his way over to the outskirts of the jungle. Curiously, Alan followed after. “Where are you going?”

“To find Tino,” said Austin simply.

“Aus,” Alan sighed in exasperation, “we’ve looked! We can’t find him! We’ve done all we can. Now it’s up to Tino to do his part.” Every word that came from his mouth burned his tongue as he thought of all the possibilities of what could have happened to their friend.

“Now it’s up to me to do my part, as well,” said Austin coldly.

Alan blinked. “Austin, I-I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Austin told him.

Alan sighed because that was precisely the problem.

He followed Austin, trekking deeper and deeper into the forest. Despite the rugged terrain and the coagulation of humidity in the forest, Alan had to admit that the shady trees and the escape from the sun’s burning rays was a nice change of scenery. Being with Austin was just fine, too.

“Austin, you know I tried, right?” asked Alan cautiously.

Austin’s lips pursed, but he nodded.

“Then why do you sound mad at me?!” exclaimed Alan in a frenzy.

Without warning, Austin stopped in his tracks. He stood there, staring off into the distance which Alan was sure was the direction of their waterfall they had sat beside on their first morning on the island. Only four days had passed since then, but it felt like a lifetime.

Then, Alan watched it happen in slow motion. Austin’s gangly legs trembled until he could no longer stand, and he fell to the ground, knees digging into the jagged rocks that poked up from the ground’s soil. Alan winced as he heard the tearing of denim and watched blood begin to gush from Austin’s knee as the skin ripped open. Austin ignored it, hands grappling blindly at the rocks in front of him for some sort of stability.

Austin had finally reached his breaking point, and Alan stood back watching, apprehensive to approach his best friend and gather him into his arms. Alan would only hurt Austin in the end, and he didn’t want Austin’s vulnerability to blossom into a regret.

At first, Austin’s sobs were silent little wheezes, as though he were trying to keep this moment as private as possible. But soon he began to choke on his sobs, and they started to echo throughout the forest, drowning out the sounds of rushing water from the distance. Tremors shook his body, and more blood pooled around his knees.

Alan winced, and Austin started to dry heave.

“Austin, what’s wrong?” Alan asked, biting back his own sobs. This was his worst nightmare.

“I j-just want to die!” cried Austin.

And Alan heard his own heart shatter.

 

 

 

 

VII.

 

 

After stomaching a handful of nuts and some fish, Ryan finally decided that enough was enough. He couldn’t deal with this any longer. While Jon wandered away with Brendon to collect some more fruit, Ryan made his way over to the hammock where Spencer was laying, licking his fingers clean after eating the food Jon had brought over to Spencer.

Standing akimbo over Spencer, Ryan stared pointedly down at him.

Spencer squinted at Ryan through the sunlight. “Yeah?”

“We need to talk,” said Ryan.

Spencer nodded and scooted, making room on the hammock for Ryan to clamber in. Since Ryan was as thick as a plank of wood, not much room was needed nor allotted for him. He fit comfortably, anyways.

“What’s up?” asked Spencer, his lips smacking as he sucked mango juice leftover on his fingers.

“Brendon.”

“Is something wrong with him?”

Ryan glared. “I forgot how much of a smart ass you are, Spence.”

Spencer shrugged. “That’s what happens when you leave.” It wasn’t an attack; it was simply fact.

Ryan sighed in frustration. “Why won’t he forgive me?!”

“Look, Ryan.” Spencer sat up straighter. “You agreed to come on this tour, and Brendon was fine with that. But you can’t come back and pretend nothing happened. You left, Ryan,” he exclaimed, “You broke his heart, and you can’t come back expecting it to patch itself up because you’re here. That’s a lot of narcissism on your part if that’s what you think.”

“What I did was wrong,” agreed Ryan, “but I’m trying to fix things!”

“Ryan, you wrecked Brendon. That’s why I stayed in the band, okay? I stayed because he needed me. He would have done the same for me. And while I may not be mad at you, Ryan, I’m not just going to sweep what you did under the table because you did hurt him.”

Ryan let his head drop into his hands. He had known this all along but hearing it from Spencer’s mouth (who had been with Brendon for the years that Ryan wasn’t) was surreal.

Their relationship had started out the same way it ended: rocky. At first, it had been Brendon pining for Ryan in a hilariously, yet flirtatious, manner. When they were warming up or goofing around in the studio, Brendon would play songs on his guitar and change up the lyrics to direct them at Ryan. He distinctly remembered Brendon butchering one of his favorite Beatles songs, and that had been the song that sealed the deal for the two of them…:

_If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true?_   
_And help me out of these pants, cause I’ve been in love before_   
_And I’ve found that love was always sex over romance…._

Later that afternoon, when they had passed each other in the hallway, Ryan had pushed him against the wall and attacked every inch of his lips that he could, biting and marking his territory lecherously. That had kick started the next several months of their relationship, which was stolen kisses backstage, subtle touches in interviews, and illicit sins inside hotel walls.

Then, Ryan realized that people suspected something. He remembered visiting his father in the hospital, only a few months before he finally died, with Brendon, and his father slurred out a drunken rant against homosexuals. Ryan remembered his accusing tone when he pointed at Brendon and garbled, “‘ _S he your boyfriend_?” (Brendon had been sitting on a chair, bouncing his leg and pretending it were a drum set.) “ _Fuckin’ queers…_.”

That had been the catastrophic blow; and when he died, Ryan had sobbed entirely because he was mourning his father, but he cried because his father hadn’t accepted him. In turn, Ryan stopped accepting himself. He began to find nightly hook-ups and eventually started dating Keltie, trying to assure himself that this was what was going to make his father finally love him.

But Ryan had been so busy vying for acceptance from his father that he had forgotten about Brendon.

Eventually, when he called it quits with Keltie, when he finally came to terms that he loved Brendon and didn’t care if his father or the public accepted, he was flabbergasted to see that Brendon wasn’t ready to take him back with open arms. Instead, he began picking meaningless fights with Ryan all pertaining to the band. Angry at himself for hurting Brendon and angry at Brendon for not forgiving him instantly, he gave up. He quit the band. He cried about creative differences and convinced Jon to come with him. At one point, he even tried to convince Spencer just to spite Brendon, but Spencer wasn’t falling for Ryan’s manipulations.

What hurt the most for Brendon, Ryan supposed, was the note he had left in the South African hotel room the night he took a plane back home:

_I don’t want to say that I’ve been unhappy with you,_   
_But, as from today, well I’ve seen somebody new,_   
_I ain’t no fool, and I don’t take what I don’t want._

Although Ryan hadn’t butchered Beatles’ lyrics, that hadn’t been intent. He was hoping the proper lyrics, surviving through the times, would hurt Brendon more than anything Ryan could ever have written. That didn’t stop Ryan from writing, ‘The Other Girl’ (a cynical homage to ‘Another Girl’) and ‘Lie to the Truth’.

He still clearly remembered Spencer’s texts, after the break-up, about how bad Brendon was. He remembered receiving texts that Brendon was drunk again, that Brendon was standing on the balcony threatening to jump, that Brendon was picking bar fights, that Brendon was slumped in the bathroom both high and drunk and crying. Finally, Ryan changed his phone number and blocked both of them on social networking sites.

He had behaved childishly, and Spencer was right: he couldn’t pretend like none of that happened.

“How do I get him to forgive me?” asked Ryan.

“Maybe you could apologize?” suggested Spencer.

“I have!”

Spencer caught his eyes (almost like old times) and raised a knowing brow. “Sometimes, ‘sorry’ isn’t enough, Ryan.”

 

 

 

 

VIII.

 

 

The flickering campfire light illuminated the Cobra clan, along with Sisky and Butcher, who were laughing uproariously around the fire as Ryland reawakened his Guy Ripley persona and began chanting off small talk to Vicky, who was torn between amusement and embarrassment at some of the things falling from his mouth.

“Tell me, Victoria, is it often difficult to hear me over the sound of those delicious--”

“I swear if you make a boob joke one more time, Ryland,” warned Vicky through bouts of laughter.

Ryland blinked innocently, faux accent still in tow. “Ryland? Ugh, what a wretched name. I think you’re just being cruel now.”

She slapped him playfully. “Mr. Ripley, as much as I admire your own admiration for my… assets, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t point them out in front of everyone!”

Gabe laughed, “Vic, you’ve seen Nate’s dick how many times, and you’re worried about us staring at your tits?!”

“Unlike Nate’s dick,” said Vicky lowly, “my chest is actually noticeable.”

The guys bellowed with increasing laughter.

“Ouch, Novarro,” said Guy, placing a hand to his heart before moving an imaginary microphone under Gabe’s mouth. “Tell me, Gabriel, what are your own personal experiences with Novarro’s less-than-pleasing rod for teasing?”

Gabe could not answer, suffocating through his laughter. Even Nate, who was now the brunt of the jokes, was red in the face from laughter. It felt nice to sit around laughing at the campfire as though they weren’t stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Vicky sighed and took a final swig of her and Ryland’s bottle of beer. “How much do we have left?”

Butcher looked. “Between our two tents, five.”

“Maybe we can trade someone for cigarettes….” muttered Vicky.

Gabe snorted, “No, you’re not.” As he said this, he snatched the pack sitting with the beer bottles and slid one from the pack.

Vicky stared at him. “When did you start again? Thought you quit?”

“I did, and then I didn’t,” mumbled Gabe, and he meandered away from the campfire, down towards the water where he lit up and stared into the inky night where the waves looked as though they were rolling out of a black abyss. Squinting through the night, Gabe recognized a familiar silhouette, sitting on a rock down the coast. Carefully, Gabe treaded down the coast, following equally familiar footsteps that had not yet been washed away by the undertow.

The smoke from the Marlboro filled his lungs, and he puffed on it greedily, savoring the much-missed burn of the nicotine-filled smoke trickling down his throat. The familiar burn brought Gabe back towards a time when he was much happier.

Finally, he approached the figure. “Hey,” he whispered.

Without even looking, the figure murmured back despondently, “Smoking’s bad for you. Thought you quit, anyways.”

“Quit quitting,” said Gabe.

“Oh.”

Gabe sighed. “Bilvy, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Gabe’s brows furrowed in confusion, and he took a longer hit of his cigarette. “What do you mean? I always call you that.”

“Please,” William choked thickly, “Don’t.”

Kneeling down beside the rock, Gabe silently offered William a cigarette and watched with surprise as he took it. William had only ever smoked a handful of times: once when he had been younger and trying to impress Gabe who had been in Midtown at the time, and a few other times when stress had taken its toll and William adopted a very Gabe-like persona of running from his problems and burying his emotions in bad habits and even worse jokes.

Gabe lit William up and watched him cough hoarsely as the foreign taste burned his throat.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” whispered William.

“What do you mean?” asked Gabe, eyebrows still knit in confusion, worry elevating.

“For what I did to you,” murmured William, coughing again on the cigarette and wrinkling his nose in disgust. He took another hit. “I’m an awful person.”

“You’re not, Bilvy,” Gabe assured him, wondering if what Sisky had said a few days ago was still bothering Bill.

Because Gabe had forgiven his ex-lover for it. Sure, he still loved Bill, but he didn’t hate Bill because he hadn’t felt the same way. William loved Christine now, and they had a beautiful daughter together. Gabe couldn’t hate William for being happy.

“I-I broke your heart,” whispered William, choking through the cigarette and through his own sadness.

“I’m fine,” insisted Gabe dishonestly.

“I-I lied to you,” William went on.

Gabe’s eyes widened. “W-what are you talking about?”

“I lied to you,” repeated William shakily, “W-when I said I didn’t love you. I-I lied.”

“You love me again?” asked Gabe in a low, disbelieving whisper.

“I never stopped.”

“Fuck, Bilvy.” Gabe ran his free hand through his hair. “Are you serious?”

“I’m sorry,” squeaked Bill.

Gabe watched one of his trembling hands reach out and flick the remnants of his cigarette into the ocean before offering Gabe one last apologetic stare and scurrying back to his tent, where he had falling asleep alone for the last few days.

 

 

 

 

IX.

 

 

Vic and Kellin hadn’t spoken all day.

It was nothing personal, but Kellin had strangely retreated into himself ever since his walk last night, and Vic couldn’t ascertain why. However, he was also down on his luck ever since the discovery that his guitar had gone missing. That was the guitar he had written every single song on, and that was the guitar that had always offered him an escape when he felt like hurting himself.

Vic remained inside the tent, thinking about everything and nothing, all day. Jaime had walked in a few times, asked him if he wanted to talk, but Vic had declined his offers. Tony had even come in, offering mangoes, but Vic had also turned him down. The only person Vic really wanted to talk to was a fucking mess, himself.

So Jaime and Tony sent Mike in after him, trying to convince him to join the fire and associate with his friends again.

“Why?” mumbled Vic. “Why should I have fun when all of Kellin’s friends are dead?”

Mike sighed sympathetically. “You can’t deny yourself something just because somebody else doesn’t have it.”

“Yes, I can,” said Vic stubbornly.

Mike crossed his arms. “This is about your guitar, isn’t it?”

Tears welled in Vic’s eyes. It wasn’t so much about the guitar as much as it was about everything his guitar stood for. It stood for every line that Vic inked across paper and every word that had ever patched up his broken heart. It stood for the song that Vic had penned for Kellin and the honesty and emotions he had let flood into every chord.

His guitar had been the best way for him to let Kellin know what he felt about him. Now it was gone, and Vic had no other way to communicate his emotions properly to Kellin. He told all this to his brother.

Nodding understandingly, Mike sat down beside him and carded a hand through his hair. “I’m sure if you just told Kellin how you felt about him--”

“And be a home wrecker?!” howled Vic. “At least with my guitar, I could mask my pain as a creative decision!”

Mike said nothing.

And Vic continued through thick sobs, “I love him so much, Mike. I r-really do.”

“I think he feels the same way,” whispered Mike.

“You’re only saying that because you’re my brother.”

“No, I’m only saying that because it’s the truth. Have you seen the way he looks at you, Vic? He’s a fucking lovesick puppy, and you know it, too. And you wouldn’t be a home wrecker. Sometimes, people don’t meet their real soul mate until after they’ve settled for what they thought was theirs.”

“He’s grieving, Mike,” said Vic, “He’s vulnerable. Anything that might happen between us is only going to be a mistake in the end.”

“Thinking like that and worrying too much about the consequences to make a move is going to end in regret for you, Vic.”

“Stop that, Mike!” Vic snickered through his pain.

“Stop what?”

“Stop talking to me like I’m younger than you.”

“Age is just a number, Vic,” teased Mike, ruffling his brother’s hair.

“…I feel pathetic.”

“Why?”

“Every song I’ve ever written was for him, and he never noticed.”

“Never noticed?” Mike snorted. “Vic, he knows every word of ‘I’m Low on Gas and You Need a Jacket’.” Mike patted Vic a few more times on the back. “C’mon, join the fire. I think Tony convinced Kellin to join, too.”

“Really?” asked Vic, poking his head up slightly.

Mike laughed, “Fuck, you’re head over heels.”

Vic flushed. “Am I pining?”

Mike laughed and left the tent, unresponsive. And Vic watched from the threshold as Kellin slumped out of his own tent and took a seat by the fire, looking over at the Pierce the Veil tent almost expectantly… hopefully.

 

 

 

 

X.

 

 

When night had properly fallen, and many occupants had finally left the fires to fall asleep, Brendon snuck out of the tent and took a seat by the fire, pulling out his notebook and hoping to write out more of his emotions. He was so confused with the several emotions racing through his body. Part of him wanted to forgive Ryan, but he hurt so much that he could hardly deal with his presence. At least when Ryan was absent from his life, the ghost of his memory only crossed his mind intermittently.

A noise stirred behind him, and Brendon jumped. When he turned around, he saw Jon clambering out of the tent, rubbing his eyes sleepily and yawning.

“Brendon, you shouldn’t be out here this late, alone,” Jon told him.

Brendon shrugged. “Inspiration doesn’t run on the clock, Jon.”

“Still writing, then?” asked Jon.

Brendon nodded. “You are, too, though.”

“I write to communicate,” said Jon.

“Do your messages ever get properly received?” asked Brendon, almost enigmatically.

“Sometimes,” responded Jon through pursed lips.

Brendon gave him an apologetic glance in the firelight. In the firelight, Jon looked fuzzy and much older than Brendon remembered, despite the fact that they hadn’t properly seen each other in years. His beard was proper, no longer just scruffy stubble along his jaw. He had put on weight but not much. In fact, most of the weight he had put on looked like muscle tone. Briefly, Brendon glanced down at his own body, marveling at the way he had gone from a skinny teenager from Vegas to… _this_.

He had worked for his muscles, had spent hours trying to tone his body and feel better about himself. He had also spent many hours at the gym, trying to get rid of the excess weight he had put on after excessive boozing. It had worked, though, because Brendon looked good. He was happy with himself and no longer did he feel like he wasn’t worth something or not worth somebody’s attention.

Now, Brendon knew what he deserved, and he deserved better than Ryan.

As though reading his mind, Jon mumbled, “Ryan’s trying.”

“Apologies aren’t always going to change something, Jon,” Brendon said.

He nodded understandingly. Jon was always like that, and it was a quality of his that would never change. He always understood, and he never judged you for making a decision that you thought was for the best.

“How’ve you been getting on lately, Brendon?” asked Jon.

He shrugged. “I’m better.”

“I’m glad.” Jon offered a small smile. “I was worried about you a few years ago.”

Brendon nodded in agreement. “I wasn’t sure what days I was going to actually going to wake up the next morning.”

“I’m glad you’re better,” Jon told him. “You look good, Brendon. You look happy.”

And Brendon was happy. He didn’t need Ryan to achieve that, he realized.

Knowing this, he agreed to go back into the tent with Jon, and a pair of eyes watched from behind the trees.

 

 

 

XI.

 

 

Alex laid awake in the middle of the night, listening to the crackling of the dying fire outside. He shivered because Jack, who had been sharing a pillow with Alex (because he always forgot to pack one), had also stolen all the blankets. Tay had snuck out of the tent briefly to go to the bathroom.

He lay awake and thought about Jack, glancing over to watch his best friend’s chest rise-and-fall with his breathing. His own breaths were quiet and barely there, but they ghosted over the skin of Alex’s neck and set his skin alight with a foreign fire he had never been able to describe.

The kiss with Jack in the forest had been… exhilarating. It had been filled with lust and want and a passion that Alex had never had in his life before. A fire burned inside him when he thought back on that moment. And every time he did, he felt guilty. He thought about Tay and wondered if she would be alright if he broke up with her.

She was pretty and funny and wonderful, and Alex enjoyed being around her. But perhaps he hadn’t been fully committed to their relationship from the start. So much pressure from her friends and even his friends had eventually forced them on enough dates that they announced themselves a couple and slowly adapted to the label- instead of the other way around.

But then, yesterday, Jack had kissed Alex, and it had been everything that Alex had ever wanted.

Jack was the only one who was always there for him. He was a constant in his life that was as necessary as oxygen to him. Alex remembered, five days ago, when he thought that Jack was going to die. He remembered the words that Jack had spoken to them, and he remembered his own feelings of guilt because Jack’s words had been true. And Alex had been selfish for being too afraid to admit to Jack that he loved him, too.

He did want to be with Jack, but he didn’t want a sour relationship to poison their friendship.

Jack was a constant in Alex’s life, and he was afraid to lose him.

Sometimes, Alex wondered if maybe he took a leap of faith. If maybe he stopped planning everything so meticulously. If maybe he lived recklessly. If maybe he told Tay the truth tonight and kissed Jack ‘good morning’ when the rising sun hit the island. If maybe he seized the day for once in his life….

Tay’s entrance back into the tent shook Alex from his thoughts.

She shivered in the cold and wrapped herself in the blankets. Her skin was still pale and clammy, as it had been in the forest earlier.

“Are you okay?” Alex asked her.

Tay shook her head, and Alex could see the faint echoes of tears left on her cheeks. She sniffled. “N-no.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Alex.

“A-alex,” Tay cried, “I’m pregnant.”


	6. The Lion and the Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait on this. College is a bitch and a half. But I hope these 18 pages will hold you over for a while.

I.

 

 

Alex paced in frustration. He had immediately left the swelling silence in the tent and replaced it with the nightly island air, crisp with the remnants of bonfire scents and calming with the distant lullaby of the waves lapping at the shore. With shaking fingers, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, desperate to dispel his worries in a breeze of smoke. He lit the cigarette and inhaled a handful of times before the crunching of sand confirmed that Tay was, indeed, still outside with him- that this was not a problem to be fixed with an easy addiction.

“Alex?” she whispered timidly.

He turned around to face her, face blank and stoic, as though he didn’t quite trust himself to react in this moment. Hoarsely, he croaked, “H-how do you know?”

She bit her lip, and the moonlight seemed to only illuminate the anxiety coursing through her ashen face. “I took a pregnancy test… before the tour. I didn’t want to tell you until I had decided….”

“Decided on what?”

“Whether to keep it or not,” she finished in shame. Self-consciously, she hugged her stomach, as though wishing that she could stop the life from beginning to form inside her.

“What did you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” she began to cry again. The tears streamed down her face, her bottom lip wobbled, and she sniffled, trying to mask the whimpers that arbitrarily escaped her throat. “I’m not ready to be a parent, Alex. A-and I know you aren’t either. I f-felt awful, everyday, keeping this from you. But I thought we’d be rescued by now. I thought we’d be home, and I would never have to tell you. I thought everything would go back to normal!”

Wailing and defeated, Tay sunk to the sandy ground and buried her face into her knees, curling in on herself. Her body trembled frenziedly, despite how she tried to stifle her sadness.

Cautiously, Alex crouched beside her, watching her shaking form. Silently, he smoked and slid off his jacket, wrapping her up in the warmth and throwing his free arm around her. Carefully, he placed a kiss into her hair, smelling the salty ocean in the strands.

“I’m so sorry, Tay.”

“I’m scared, Alex.”

He embraced her tighter. “I’m here for you, you know that?”

She hiccupped. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to be with me, now, Alex. I-I understand if this won’t work. F-fuck, I don’t even know how this is going to work if we’re still on this damned island in seven months!”

“We won’t be,” he assured her. “A-and I’m not leaving you, Tay. Not now. Not ever. I want us-- I want us to be a proper family.” He swallowed, half-hesitating. “I want to marry you.”

Surprised, Tay lifted her face to look him in the eye. Her face was sallow and thin, tears trailing down her porcelain cheeks. She bit her lip again, and Alex smiled as though that were a reminder of the night he fell head over heels for her. (She had bit her lip, and he had kissed her instantly). “Alex,” she gasped, “I--I don’t want this to be a shotgun wedding!”

“I love you, Tay,” said Alex shakily. “I want this.”

She smiled, small and sweet and shameful, before leaning forward to kiss him on his lips. Her lips were chapped, and her mouth was equally as dry. He could taste the saline tears that had slid down her face, and he could hear the hitches in her throat. But none of that mattered, at the moment. All that mattered was that Alex was equivocally and inevitably fucked.

After all, he was in love with his best friend- not Tay. Jack. His Jack. But Alex had been fine with the unrequited pining that had come with his original feelings for his band mate and best friend. In a way, Alex used to think it was utterly romantic: unrequited love. But then, only days ago, he had almost lost Jack. And Jack had told Alex that he loved him back, and Jack had fucked everything. Because Alex was okay with pining, but he wasn’t okay with commitment. It was why Lisa didn’t work, why Janelle didn’t work, and why Meg didn’t work. It was all those one-night stands at parties or all those ‘seven minutes in heaven’ during high school that felt comfortable to Alex. They weren’t permanent, and they didn’t suffocate Alex.

Jack would suffocate Alex, and both their lungs would collapse. 

Alex needed Jack in ways that he couldn’t bear to lose. Jack had always been his saving grace. When Alex had been ditched at homecoming by his date, Jack had taken him to the back of the school where they smoked a joint. And when Alex had been drinking heavily after the death of his brother, Jack had sat and gotten drunk with him. Jack was a constant in Alex’s life that he wasn’t going to risk with feelings. All feelings ever did was complicate matters.

Tay deepened the kiss, and he tried hard not to think about Jack while his girlfriend (fiancée?) was wrapped around him.1

He dropped the cigarette from between his fingers as she wrapped her lithe arms around his neck, folding her body into his in similar ways that had led them to this very predicament.

He knew how sinful this was. How disgusting it was to lie to the both of them.

In the back of his mind, he thought of Jack and the look on his face when he realized that Alex was engaged. But Alex couldn’t help but think that the white picket fence was the perfect excuse and the perfect escape from an impending heartbreak, should he and Jack ever fall out of love.

After all, Alex wasn’t stupid. Any heart that loved could be broken. What made his and Jack’s any different?

 

 

II.

 

 

The chilled night wind blew into the Of Mice & Men tent. Snores issued from the vacuous space. In fact, the tent felt larger than life as Tino’s absence swelled poignantly around Alan. He sat, crouched in the corner of the tent, peeking through the slits at the stars that littered the sky. He wasn’t an astronomer, but he could see Orion’s belt and he could see the Little Dipper and Big Dipper, as well as the North Star. The sky over the island felt more alive, to Alan, than the skies back home had. Back home, the sky was cloudy and black and unforgiving. Here, the stars shone with ambition.

Austin’s snores ricocheted around the night; they were the only sounds that soothed Alan.

After the hysteria of the afternoon, Alan had slipped Austin a sleeping pill, lying and telling him it was from a bottle of vitamins that had been passed around the camp to prevent anyone from falling ill.

The pill was just as much for Alan’s benefit, though, as it had been for Austin’s. Alan couldn’t stand to watch the emptiness settle in Austin’s eyes. He couldn’t stand to watch his eyes rim with tears, and his voice hitch as he tried not to cry for the staggering number of friends they’ve lost to this island. Alan thought of Austin as too fragile, but sometimes Alan was just as precariously perched to the brink of insanity that they all danced the line of.

Alan knew he couldn’t bear to watch Austin fall to that madness. He would take a bullet for his best friend before he dared let him succumb to insanity. For both their sakes, he had given him that sleeping pill. For both their sakes, Alan had made a silent vow to protect Austin from harm and have him make it off this island alive.

No amount of sleeping pills could make Austin love himself, nor could it make Austin love Alan the way Alan loved Austin.

The gangly form of Austin stirred beside Alan, and he instinctively carded a hand through his friend’s hair, hushing him.

The island had made pawns of them all, Alan had noticed. Although he seemed to have retreated into himself since the crash, Alan had really been observing the other occupants. He had been noticing changes in behaviors and had made mental notes on the evolution of them. After all, he wasn’t stupid. In school, he had read _Lord of the Flies_ with his class. Although the novel had been dry and awfully metaphoric, Alan couldn’t help but wish he had a copy with him… just to check if there was any foreshadowing in their actions. There seemed to be order on the island. No one seemed to be out-of-place…except, of course, the absence of Tino, which greatly troubled Alan even more than he’d like to admit.

There was nothing more for Alan to do than keep a watchful eye on the other occupants of the island. Something strange was brewing, and they were nothing but soldiers in a war with no foreseeable end game.

Austin shuffled beside him, and it wasn’t until his groggy voice whispered hoarsely into the tent that Alan realized he was awake. “Whatimeisit?”

Startled, Alan jumped before piercing Austin with gentle eyes. “Late.”

“Come to bed,” mumbled Austin.

He didn’t even question the sleeping pill, or falling asleep instantaneously, or why Alan was up in the first place.

“I’m thinking,” muttered Alan in reply.

Austin ignored him and began to wriggle under his blankets, slightly haphazard because of the groggy effect the pill still had upon him. Alan tried to ignore the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as Austin lifted the blanket as an invitation for his friend.

After a few moments more of hesitation, Alan crawled underneath the blanket and allowed Austin to throw a tired arm over his waist, inadvertently pulling Alan closer until he could feel the gentle rise and fall of Austin’s chest behind him. Alan closed his eyes and imagined the beating heart of Austin Carlile just behind him. Imagined the scars from the surgery. How Austin’s heart had been a ticking time bomb….

And how, despite assurances from the doctors, Alan had been worried that his friend wouldn’t make it out of the operating room alive.

Alan remembered those sleepless nights, while Austin was in the hospital, where he paced and paced, staring at his phone as though expecting a call to tell him the worst had happened. But it hadn’t. Alan had visited Austin after the procedure; and although he was knocked out from the mass quantities of narcotics they had given him, Alan held his hand anyway. They all needed a hand to hold sometimes, awake or dreaming.

Behind Alan, Austin buried his face into the nape of his neck. Alan could feel the sharp bristles of Austin’s beard tickle his skin. He tensed. 

“Misstino….” mumbled Austin into Alan’s skin.

Rigid and unsure what to say, Alan merely hummed his reply, hoping Austin would surrender to the sleeping pill.

“Worried…bout…you,” slurred Austin, still into Alan’s skin; and Alan swore he could feel Austin’s voice reverberate through his bloodstream and rattle his bones.

It frightened him, immensely: the effect that Austin sometimes had over Alan. It frightened him knowing what a hold Austin Carlile had over him. It scared him endlessly that someone could just crawl into another’s skin, and make a home there, and not know how sacred that hearth was.

“I’m here,” Alan assured Austin.

“What if you’re not?” whispered Austin, the clearest he had spoken all night, but Alan could hear the sleepy smack of his lips.

“I’m here,” whispered Alan again, as though this statement was enough.

And maybe it was because Austin fell silent again, and Alan could feel the gentle tumble of his chest against his back. He could feel Austin’s even breaths splaying down his spine. Biting his lip and waging a war, Alan laced his fingers with Austin’s and closed his eyes.

This was easy.

This didn’t require thought.

To Alan, laying with Austin felt like eternity.

 

 

III.

 

 

He watched him sleep.

It was calm and innocent, like watching something that should never be woken-- lest of all, to see the horrors that the world revealed beyond those closed eyelids.

Pete hadn’t been able to sleep since he had kissed Patrick and Patrick had sobbed. He had run out of the tent and wandered along the shore, before returning to the tent and passing out wordlessly. Pete hadn’t badgered him or pushed the issue; instead, he felt insanely guilty and worried, at the same time. He couldn’t sleep out of fear that he had done something wrong.

The only thing that comforted him about Patrick’s sleep was that the younger man had substituted Pete’s lap for a pillow, allowing for Pete to card his hands through Patrick’s hair and feel the downy-soft feel of the strands. He tried to close his eyes and pretend they were in the back of the tour bus, watching the lights of thousands of cities flit by their peripheral. But every time Pete tried to close his eyes, he heard the strangled sobs of Patrick and then he heard that feminine scream from the woods-- the one that no one else had heard.

“You think too loud,” a quiet voice squeaked.

Pete jumped, having almost forgotten that Patrick was merely sleeping, not dead. With surprised eyes, he stared down at Patrick who was blinking slowly, squinting into the dawn, and yawning.

The bright orange light from the sun cascaded upon their two bodies. It lit up Patrick like an angel, yet Pete’s body seemed to remain in the shadow of the tent, untouched by the light, just like a fallen angel. With this simple metaphor, Pete’s mind seemed to understand Patrick’s tears. Of course Patrick had cried when Pete had kissed him. What else do you do when you’re tainted? When phantom lips kiss you….

“I’m sorry about last night,” whispered Patrick, finally opening his eyes fully. Pete could see the baby blues tinted pink from his night of crying. He could see the red soreness ringed around his puffy eyes, and Pete felt like crying, as well. Crying because he finally broke Patrick.

“Why are you sorry?” asked Pete, shamefully, “I should be sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Patrick.

….

“What do you mean?” Pete asked, flabbergasted. “I kissed you!”

“And I kissed you back,” finished Patrick. He sighed and sat up, running a hand through his bedraggled hair that Pete secretly found adorable. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Pete. You could never do anything wrong to me.”

“B-but--”

Patrick’s cheeks pinked slightly. “I cried. And then I fell asleep. A-and I didn’t talk to you, Pete-- _I know_. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I was trying to figure this out. I mean, after all these years, why did this have to happen now?”

“What do you mean?”

“For years, I’ve wanted you to kiss me,” whispered Patrick, still blushing slightly, “A-at Lake Michigan. At the hotel. In the hospital. A-and every time you didn’t kiss me, I couldn’t help but think, ‘ _what did I do wrong_ ’? Then I felt silly, like what would you ever want with me? Why would _the_ _great Pete Wentz_ ever want to kiss me?” Tears slid down Patrick’s face, but he ignored them.

“Then, last night, you _finally_ kissed me. A-and I just couldn’t take it, Pete. _Why now?_ I’m married, and I shouldn’t have kissed you back-- a-and I did. I kissed you back….”

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” said Pete quickly. “We can pretend it never happened. Elisa will never know.”

Patrick was crying properly know. “But that’s the thing, Pete. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t want to pretend it never happened. When you kissed me, last night, it felt like I mattered.”

Frowning, Pete reached up to cup Patrick’s face in his hand. “You don’t need me to make you matter, Trick. You’re worth ten of me.”

“I don’t feel like it,” replied Patrick lamely.

“I don’t know why,” whispered Pete in return. Daringly, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on Patrick’s forehead, slamming his eyes shut as though yearning to remember this moment forever and savor it (even when they were rescued, and Patrick returned to his wife, and Pete returned to the empty bed that could never be properly filled). “I wish you could see yourself as I see you.”

“But if I did that, why would I need you?”

“You don’t need me,” said Pete sadly. He was nothing more than a friend that Patrick pitied. Poor, little Pete Wentz who had tried to kill himself; now everyone had to coddle him to keep him alive. His existence was a burden. “You need Elisa: your wife.”

Patrick shook his head, laughing hollowly. “It’s funny, Pete,” (It didn’t sound funny, on the contrary). “I have this ring, and I run around town telling people that I love Elisa because she’s the one I married.”

“Yeah…. So?”

“Well, it’s just funny because it’s so unfair. It’s unfair because you’re the one I love.”

Pete’s jaw dropped.

His eardrums were pounding as though he had just heard an explosion or witnessed the drop of the atom bomb in Hiroshima. His vision blurred, and all he could see was the fuzzy outline of Patrick, illuminated by the sunlight, which formed a halo around his being. And Pete thought of the shadows of Japanese people, forever embedded upon the walls in Hiroshima. He thought of those eternal glimpses of death. He thought of their silent screams. Then, he thought of how Patrick couldn’t be anymore than an echo on the wall, like that. Patrick couldn’t be real, and neither could this moment because it was all too good for an undeserving Pete.

“What?”

“You heard me,” said Patrick firmly.

Pete shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”

At this, Patrick frowned. “Why not?”

“Why were you crying last night?!” demanded Pete, ignoring the question.

Patrick hung his head, trying not to look Pete in the eyes. “I just-- was thinking of all those lost moments we could’ve had. How we could’ve kissed at the lake, or at the hotel, or at the hospital, or all those times between…. How maybe, had we kissed before we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

“This is fucking crazy,” whispered Pete, slamming his eyes shut, almost afraid to open them and be faced with the reality that this was all a dream.

Only in a dream could Patrick ever love him in return.

“It’s not crazy,” said Patrick, and Pete could hear him scooting closer to him. “I love you, Pete. What’s so crazy about that?”

“You’re too good for me,” choked Pete.

Trembling and unsure, Patrick put his arms around Pete’s neck, pressing his wrist against the nape of his neck, so Pete could feel his pulse against his skin. So Pete could be reassured that this wasn’t a dream. Finally, for the second time, Patrick leaned forward to press his lips against Pete’s.

This time, though, no one cried.

 

 

IV.

 

 

The dawn passed, and the oranges and yellows that had rimmed the horizon were finally nothing but blue skies. Bulbous and blinding, the sun shone to the ground, marking one of the hottest days that the survivors on the island had experienced. The sand seemed to burn their bare feet, and many slipped their Converses back on (or simply sought refuge within the tents’ shade). Cool breezes had become abysmal by the light of the morning, and there was a deep yearning for the coolness that the forest offered; yet there was a certain reluctance to venture far, as the news of Tino’s disappearance was troubling for everyone.

Bob Bryar awoke in the same foul mood that most of the residents were in. After all, Bob was entirely too used to Chicago and its harsh blizzards and lake effect temperatures. The heat made him moody, and he looked up at the damned sun wondering when the hell it would finally burn up and consume the entire planet.

“You’re pleasant,” muttered Gerard softly as Bob stated this aloud and tried to shield his eyes from the blinding rays.

Bob repressed the instant urge to snap at Gerard. He had already snapped at Frank; and finally, guilt was settling in from that moment. 

Suddenly, Bob shot up from his sleep.

“Where’s Frank?”

Gerard shrugged apathetically. He looked sick, even in the magnificent light of the complimentary sun. He was much thinner (they all were), but he looked worst because it seemed that stress and grief had finally gotten the best of Gerard Way. No longer were his eyes sad with the images of his brother’s death; instead they were empty, as if the will to live had left Gerard in a single, last breath.

On the contrary, Bob’s eyes burned with near-rage.

“Where’s Frank?” he repeated.

Throughout the night, Bob had had trouble sleeping; he had gone over the argument with Frank countless times in his head. All he could see when he closed his eyes to sleep were Frank’s sad, defeated eyes. And that broke Bob’s heart.

Once upon a time, Frank and Bob were best friends. Frank would climb on Bob’s shoulders whenever he was feeling playful and knew Bob needed cheered up; he would purposefully take too long signing autographs until Bob was sent out to lug his ass back into the bus; he tortured Bob with cameras and had even taken selfies with Bob as the latter slept, and Bob fucking missed all of that. 

He could remember, during the tour for _The Black Parade_ , how Frank’s insomniac antics had led him to jumping into Bob’s bunk and stirring him from his sleep. After a few eloquently strung curse words, Bob had reluctantly made room in the bunk to accommodate Frank, who had rested one of his elbows at Bob and begun to talk in that _a thousand words a minute_ way he used when he was anxious for something.

_“Frank, go to sleep,” said Bob gruffly, pulling the blanket up to his chin and wondering when Frank’s caffeinated steam would blow out._

_“I can’t!” exclaimed Frank, playing with his hands, “I can’t help but feeling that I’m missing out on something, y’know?”_

_“I’m sure whatever it is, someone tivo’d it,” Bob told him dully._

_“Not like that!” Frank sighed in exasperation. “Something bigger!”_

_Bob raised a brow. “Did we leave Ray at another gas station?”_

_Frank swatted Bob’s bicep. “I’m talking about me, Bob.”_

_“And just when I thought you weren’t as self-centered as people said….”_

_“Who says I’m self-centered?” asked Frank in distraction. “Was it Gee? ‘Cause he spends an hour doing his make-up, just so you know--”_

_“Frank, get to the point!” grunted Bob, never wishing so desperately for his band mate to shut up and for sleep to arrive._

_He shrugged, defeated. There was a sad, puppy-like smile on his face. His eyes seemed to widen, as if to accommodate the negative feelings that had trespassed through those windows. He looked down and began to play with his hands again, and Bob noticed that he was shivering (even though it was hardly cold on the bus). Sympathetically, Bob reached out and grabbed Frank’s wrist, keeping it in a tight grip before Frank got his fingers tangled-- or something equally Frank-ish._

_“What’s up with you, man?” asked Bob softly._

_He shrugged, and Bob could see the wobbling of his lip that he hadn’t seen before. Then Bob realized why Frank’s eyes looked so desperate and so wide: Frank was holding back tears._

_“Do you ever feel like you’re not right?” asked Frank._

_“What do you mean?”_

_He shrugged. “That you were built the wrong way or something.”_

_“I don’t think that’s possible.”_

_Frank bit his lip. “I think I’m all screwed up, Bobby.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he admitted sadly, “I’m in this band, a-and… Bob, are you happy with what you’re doing?”_

_Bob blinked. No one had ever asked him that before. He was the drummer; he was replaceable. No one really cared whether his heart was in it or not. “I-I guess.”_

_“I’m being serious, Bob!” Frank pressed desperately._

_“Well, then, yeah,” said Bob, “I am happy with what I’m doing. Before this band, I didn’t have any clue what to do with my life. I was depressed and lonely. Now, I feel happy.”_

_“I don’t,” whispered Frank. “I never feel fucking happy anymore.”_

_“You used to.”_

_“That was before--” But Frank’s voice cracked, and his eyes sold him out as they glimpsed in their periphery towards Gerard’s bunk, where his hand was flung out of the covers and a golden ring could be seen on his left hand._

_Finally, Bob understood. He adjusted himself to reach out and embrace his friend, letting Frank bury his face into his neck and properly cry- something he hadn’t been able to do since Gerard’s wedding: where Frank wasn’t even told beforehand._

_“He’s so stupid, Bob,” sobbed Frank, “and I love him.”_

Bob missed _that_ Frank. He missed that friendship they had together, and he missed the closeness. The island had blinded Bob to what truly mattered. While Gerard needed grieving time alone, Frank needed company. He always needed company. Frank wasn’t a loner-type. Frank thrived off other people’s laughter and deep conversations at night; in fact, Frank hardly ever went outside to smoke a cigarette unless a good conversation buddy came with him.

“Where’s Frank?” asked Bob again, slightly panicked. After all, it was so unlike Frank to be wandering off all the time, alone. “Did he even come back last night?” demanded Bob of Gerard, who was doing his best to avert his eyes from the drummer’s.

Finally, Gerard shook his head, and Bob could see tears swimming in his eyes that had not yet fallen.

Bob felt sick. Frank was missing, and he didn’t get the chance to apologize to his best friend.

 

 

V.

 

 

The morning sun eventually evolved into the afternoon, shining high over the island, but no less hotter than it had been all day. News of Frank’s disappearance had run rampant in the camps. Immediately, Bob had asked Pete and Patrick to accompany him on a search of the island. The three of them had come back without a glint of hope in their eyes, and Bob had retreated back to his tent with Gerard, both of them silent like someone who has lost a loved one is.

The inhabitants of the island seemed to be building their own coffins. It was only a gamble of when and where the coffin would be dropped to the ground.

Still, the afternoon habits went on as usual. The entire camp could not sit, stricken with grief. If they did not fish or hunt berries, then they were as good as dead. Help had still not come, and Pete considered creating another SOS down the coast of the island, but Tino and Frank’s disappearances had everyone too much on end to risk even walking along the undertow.

So it was that Alex Gaskarth had entered the forest (but not too far in, as he was advised) to gather fruits and nuts. His stomach growled as he plucked a mango, and Alex wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was sick of fruit. In fact, Alex was sick of this entire island. He wondered how it would feel to just waste away and become compost in the soil. It was what he felt like, as of late, anyways.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” a voice shrieked behind him, and Alex dropped the mango. “You are the biggest fucking idiot I have ever met in my life!” A hand grabbed him by the shoulder spun him around, and he was met with the face of Cassadee before her hand reared down and slapped him across the face.

Shocked, Alex reeled back, grabbing his stinging cheek. “W-what the fuck?”

“Tay told me,” hissed Cassadee. “So you’re engaged now?”

Alex frowned. “Yeah. Why is it any of your business?”

“Because you’re doing it for the wrong reasons!” she exclaimed. “So what if Tay’s pregnant?”

“I want to give that child a wholesome family,” insisted Alex.

Cassadee snorted derisively. “How wholesome is that family going to be when Daddy is pining for his best friend, instead of loving Mommy?”

Alex shook his head and stared down at his Converse. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh?” Cassadee quirked a brow and folded her arms. “Then how is it? Have you been playing with Jack’s heart, then?”

Narrowing his eyes, Alex sneered defensively, “Why do you care, Cass?”

She hit him again, a fire in her eyes that Alex had never witnessed before- not even when Rian had begun talking to his ex-girlfriend again on a ‘just friends’ basis. “Because Jack is my friend, too. Damn it, Alex, he is fragile, and you know it! Do you seriously want to break him?”

“Jack and I never had anything to begin with.”

Her face hardened, and she poked his chest with each of her next words. “You can lie to yourself, Alex, but don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Jack will be fine,” said Alex quickly, taking a step back from Cassadee’s reach. He hoped to reassure himself, more than her, anyways.

“Jack won’t be fine,” she told him, a slight tinge of disappointment laced in her voice, “He’s been dying everyday since he told you how he felt, and you said nothing!”

“What was I supposed to say?!” shouted Alex angrily.

“The truth!” Stomping her foot, Cassadee gesticulated wildly. “You are supposed to tell him the truth because he is your best friend, and he deserves that. If you really love Tay and want to marry her, fine! But don’t break Jack’s heart in one of your fucking lies.”

“You have nothing to do with this,” repeated Alex firmly. 

Abandoning the search for fruit, he began to trek his way out of the forest, hoping that Cassadee would not follow him. He was already on his wit’s end and stressed enough; she was only making matters (and decisions) harder for him. Alex had thought that proposing to Tay would solve his problem with Jack. Everyone would accept that Alex was willing to settle down and over his ‘silly’ crush. Jack would shack up with someone new when they were rescued (probably a blonde model with big tits), and things would return to normal. They would be Jack and Alex, again- not this Jackandalex everyone assumed they were when they were alone.

From a different lifetime, Alex could remember the harassment he had received after news that he and Jack had gone naked bowling spread. He even remembered Flyzik, before it had happened, slipping Alex a condom and giving him a fist bump. Alex had ignored him and used the condom, later that night, to fuck a girl in the bathroom when he got drunk enough that he couldn’t remember how her name wasn’t Jack.

In fact, thinking back on it, Alex was sure that he had moaned Jack’s name the entire time. It would explain why he had been slapped afterwards, though he still couldn’t really remember that night well.

Because Jack and Alex had never been Jackandalex, and it was too late to start now. Their friendship was too fragile to risk with Alex’s abysmal track-record in keeping relationships.

“Alex, I’m not done with you!” Cassadee followed him.

“Well, I am done,” said Alex, trying his best to ignore her. “I’m fucking done with everyone. We’re going to get off this island, Tay and I are going to have the wedding, and everyone can stop fucking judging me and telling me who I can or can’t be with!”

“And where does Jack fit in?”

“He’s my best friend.” Alex shrugged. “I suppose it will stay that way.”

The campsite was looming ahead of them, and the forest was thinning out. The soil that had squished beneath Alex’s feet was replaced with the crunching sounds of a sandy beach. Near the shore, Alex could see Tay fishing with Rian; they were both laughing at some joke or another, and Alex tried to imagine remaining with her ten years from now. 

But then Alex caught sight of something that made his heart drop. His stomach turned fitfully, and he felt nauseous. From the tent, Jack’s sad eyes stared at him, the ghost of tears glazed upon his cheeks.

 

 

VI.

 

 

“Empire or rebellion?”

Scoff. “The empire, obviously. Darth Vader and the storm troopers have paved the way for Halloween costumes for generations to come.”

“But that doesn’t take away their innate douchiness.”

Eye roll. “Douchiness isn’t even a word.”

“You’re hopeless to debate with,” Mike Fuentes groaned, craning his neck towards the entrance of their tent. “Vic? Empire or rebellion?”

“Rebellion,” said Vic quietly.

“See?” Mike turned back to Tony with an _‘I-told-you-so’_ look his face. “Us Fuentes brothers know our Star Wars.”

“The whole reason the Death Star blew up Alderaan was _because_ of the rebellion!” insisted Tony to an unimpressed Mike.

Vic rubbed his temples in frustration. “Can you guys-like- quiet for a moment?”

“Why?” asked Tony innocently.

Mike stared at his brother in concern for a while before he sighed and approached him, clapping him on the back assuredly. “Kellin is fine, Vic. I promise.”

“He doesn’t seem okay,” muttered Vic. “I know he’s hurting, but I was hoping there’d be some improvement in him.”

“Be patient, Vic,” Mike advised, half-hugging his brother before returning to his reclining spot across the tent from Tony. He looked at him. “Sith or Jedi?”

Tony scoffed again, “Sith. Duh. Mike, your questions are elementary school level.”

Mike rolled his eyes, laughing softly. “You’re special, Tony.”

“Special ed,” Jaime added, returning from the bathroom (which was just a tree that Jaime had designated as his territory).

Tony stuck his tongue out childishly at his band mate, but Jaime didn’t notice as he glanced over at Vic, concern knitting his brows. “Are you okay, man?”

“No,” Tony quipped for Vic, “he’s lovesick.”

“Maybe he just needs a good fuck?” Jaime laughed, elbowing Vic lightly in jest.

Vic cracked a smile, but it was broken.

Pierce the Veil’s tent settled down, and the three members continued to debate fruitless points in the Star Wars franchise, while Vic watched the blue skies overtaken with light gray clouds that swirled above threateningly. Light breezes whipped through the island and were welcomed by the overheated refugees. Vic didn’t like the cool breezes; he was entirely too used to warm weather. He shivered, wishing he had a jacket. Unconsciously, he remembered how warm it was to sleep next to Kellin, whose body was always a space heater. Kellin called it fat, but Vic called it his personal furnace.

The island seemed to mute into silence around Vic. Even the chatter of his band mates sounded distance from himself, as though he were far away from them all. Distantly, the waves crashed against the shore, and he thought he could hear thunder far off beyond the horizon. However, the only sound that seemed to permeate Vic’s personal bubble of heartbreak was a melodic voice that he knew like the back of his hand. There was a gentle strum of guitar strings accompanying the voice.

“ _I’ve been thinking lately about you and me. And all the questions left unanswered, how it all could be_.”

Vic sat up straighter, straining his ears to listen.

“ _And I hope you know, you never left my head. And if I ever let you down, I’m sorry_.”

Feeling the expectant eyes of his friends on his back, Vic jolted up on his feet and began to run towards the sound of the voice. His heart pounded anxiously, and he could feel his palms sweat (which had nothing to do with humidity). He was desperately holding his breath, as though breathing would turn this moment into another of his hopelessly romantic dreams.

“ _I see you around here lately. You smile brighter than you should. And me, I’ve been so lonely. I’m glad you’re doing good_.”

Vic slowed his steps as he approached the voice. The heavy crunching of sand muted with Vic’s cautious footsteps, and he found that he had run down the length of the island and into the forest towards a small wooded clearing with a few giant rocks. One of the rocks was occupied by Kellin. He was hunched over a guitar (which looked borrowed from one of the You Me At Six members) and plucking through the strings. His voice was soft and angelic, and Vic was happy to hear that familiar voice back in its element. It didn’t sound sad or mournful; it sounded as beautiful as it was when Vic had first heard it.

“ _Cause I can’t forget the way it used to be. And if I ever let you down, I’m sorry…._ ”

Vic stepped closer, and a twig snapped beneath his feet. Kellin jumped and nearly sent the guitar to the ground. Turning around, Kellin’s face remained stoic as he looked upon Vic. Meanwhile, Vic bit his lip, hoping to hold back the giddiness that wanted to escape his lips.

“Kellin,” he breathed.

“You heard me,” Kellin stated, neither upset nor happy.

“I-it’s beautiful,” Vic told him.

Kellin looked down at the ground and mumbled, “It’s for you.”

Finally, Vic let out a breath. It was the words he had been expecting and the words he had been waiting for. The lyrics had sounded so familiar, almost as if Vic, himself, had experienced them first-hand. And he had been right because he and Kellin, apparently, had both been experiencing the yearning of broken hearts.

“I’m sorry, Vic,” whispered Kellin without the aid of a song.

Vic didn’t really know what to say to that. The song had been beautiful and poignant and honest. There was nothing he could say to that. Both of them knew what those lyrics meant, and it would only taint the moment to dwell on them or discuss where they were both headed. 

Instead, Vic approached Kellin slowly and grabbed the guitar, setting it to the side. Wordlessly, he clambered onto the other boy’s lap and wrapped his arms around his neck, hugging him close and feeling the gentle rumble of Kellin’s chest that was just as good as a lullaby for Vic. 

And even though the moment seemed sad, Kellin smiled against Vic’s skin.

 

 

VII.

 

 

They were huddled in a pile of blankets, trying to protect themselves from the persistent wind that had begun to howl since the gray clouds overtook the blue sky. Chills ran rampant through the campsite, and many left the openness of the sandy turf to hide within their camps. Within the Panic at the Disco tent, Spencer and Jon were left alone. Brendon had for some quiet on the hammock, enduring the relentless wind. Ryan was still fruitlessly trying to fish, having heard that Brendon hadn’t eaten all day.

Jon thought it sweet but rather stupid for Ryan to still be fishing in what could evolve into a storm. Ryan was like that, though. 

So Jon and Spencer cuddled under the blankets together, and Jon made sure that Spencer’s leg was properly propped upon the pile of pillows. He laid upon the spare one they were sharing, one arm wrapped around Spencer’s waist and his face buried in the crook of his friend’s neck. Everything had changed between them, yet nothing felt different.

“Jon?” Spencer whispered softly, voice almost drowned by the wailing of the wind.

“Yeah?” Jon’s voice was hot and steady upon Spencer’s skin. His beard scratched and tickled his neck, and Spencer tried to ignore the sensation while trying to forget the way Jon’s stubble used to feel against him.

“Why won’t you let me take shrooms with you?” It was an innocent question, but Jon’s jaw clenched with tension at the interrogative.

“Because, Spencer.”

“Because why?”

Jon wrapped his arm tighter around Spencer’s waist and squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Let’s just lay here.”

“I’m sick of laying!” insisted Spencer, who had grown increasingly restless with the passing days and more irksome as the pain in his ankle refused to subside. “I feel like we’re all waiting in the middle of some trap. L-like we’re all waiting for something to get us.”

“What makes you think that?”

Spencer shrugged and cast a glance through the openings in the tent. “The forest, I guess. I get a bad feeling from it… like something’s in there.”

“You’re safe, Spencer.”

“I don’t _feel_ safe,” Spencer argued.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Spence, okay?” Jon said softly. “I never want to see you hurt again.”

“Then let me do shrooms with you!” begged Spencer, “Like old times.”

“This isn’t ‘old times.’”

“It could be.”

Jon shook his head adamantly. “It’s never going to be, Spencer. Things are never going to go back to normal, okay? I hurt you, and I’m trying to make amends with that. But that doesn’t mean I want it to be like old times again.”

“Why?” challenged Spencer angrily.

Jon blew his top, “Because I love you more than I did in the past!”

Silence.

It swelled painfully inside the tent as Spencer stared open-mouthed at Jon, not blinking and not moving. Meanwhile, Jon had immediately slammed his mouth shut and was staring back at Spencer, wondering if it would be appropriate to laugh it off as a joke, or if that wouldn’t work.

The seconds stretched to minutes, and still neither of them said anything. Jon felt as though he were caught in a trap, as though he had been swallowed into the stomach of a whale or had crawled into the jaws of a lion. He felt bare. He could practically feel his heart beating on his sleeve, and he hoped that Spencer would have enough decency to shove it back inside Jon before rejecting it.

“Y-you love me,” said Spencer shakily.

Jon continued to stare absently.

“You love me,” repeated Spencer. There was a light glow on his pale cheeks, and the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch in a smile as he said again, more confidently, “You love me.”

Finally, Jon managed to croak, “Yeah.”

“Why now?” asked Spencer suddenly, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Jon shrugged. His heart was still beating rapidly, and he was waiting for Spencer to recoil from his embrace. “I just assumed you always knew.”

“You love me.” Spencer smiled properly.

Jon nodded. “I do.”

He didn’t ask for an answer or a reply to that, and Spencer didn’t give him one. Instead, Spencer nestled into the blankets and cuddled against Jon, practically savoring the itchy feeling of Jon’s beard scratching against his neck or the warm sensation of Jon’s hand resting upon his stomach, which gave him butterflies.

“You love me,” Spencer whispered again thoughtfully. He still didn’t quite feel safe from the island, and his nerves were tingling constantly inside him, but it was a nice distraction. Jon was always the best distraction.

When Spencer had begun to doze off, Jon smiled against Spencer’s neck and dared to place a kiss on it. “I do,” whispered Jon, more to himself, “I really do.”

And even as he held Spencer, he still had the uncomfortable thoughts that a storm was heading their way, and there was nothing they could do but sit and wait for it. Spencer had been right, in a way. They were sitting ducks.

 

 

VIII.

 

 

While the sky was turning gray, Matt Barnes and Max Helyer were paying it no mind on their trek through the forest to collect fruit. They were used to gray skies because of the weather in England. In the strangest sense, the gloomy weather felt like home. Even the breeze that nipped at their skin was welcome after grueling days of sitting in the blistering island heat.

Josh’s mood swings had begun to die dramatically, but the two of them had allowed him to remain sleeping, almost afraid that his moodiness would return if he did not get his beauty rest. It was Max’s idea, who immensely pitied Josh, but it was Matt who pitied Max the most.

“He and Dan were together,” Max confirmed to Matt as they plucked berries from a bush, hoping to gather enough to subside their hunger for the rest of the night.

“Really?” asked Matt in wonder, “He said that?”

Max nodded. There was a tinge of rejection in his emotions, but he was doing his best not to show it. Maybe, if he were lucky, he’d be Josh’s second choice or something.

“What else did he say?”

Max shrugged. “Not much. I expect he’s still too broken-hearted to talk much.”

“Hearts can’t be broken if they didn’t love to begin with,” quipped Matt as a reminder, but Max wasn’t quite sure he understood, not even when Matt pierced him with a begging look.

“I’m over it,” Max assured his mate, “Honestly. This island has really changed my look on things. All is fair in love and war, Matty. Sod’s law and all that. Dan got to Josh first. I had my chance, and I blew it. Just goes to show….”

Matt shook his head. “Sometimes, you’re daft, Max.”

Max chuckled, humored, and continued to pick berries with his friend in silence. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but it eventually began to encircle the pair until it sounded right in their ears. Still, they ignored it as though it were a normal day in London. However, when the thunder cracked like a whip, and lightning darted forth from the clouds, Matt and Max both jumped and dropped their small gathering of berries to the ground.

The air had slowly become stale with an awful smell that both of them recognized but couldn’t quite place it. A slow veil of mist began to rise from the ground and evolve into a fog that mirrored the clouds above, swirling and circling and creeping through the forest like a snake hunting for prey. 

“Bloody hell,” groaned Max.

The thunder crackled again, and there was a strange rustling noise that could be heard in the forest. It sounded similar to childlike footsteps, small and gentle. There was the snapping of a twig, and the rustling of leaves beneath a wisp of material. Paranoid, both the boys began to look in the several directions around him; however, the fog had risen to their heads to such a degree that even the trees began to look like haunting shadows.

“Which way is camp?” squeaked Matt, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

Max raised a shaking hand to point, and his voice was drowned out by another belch of thunder that reverberated around the forest. The mist thickened, and another twig snapped.

When Max thought he could hear the clear sounds of footsteps approaching, he finally broke out into a run. Immediately, Matt began to trot behind him, desperately trying to keep up with his small and speedy friend. Behind them, Max thought he could hear the foreign footsteps increase their speed, too, as though they were being followed.

Through the fog, he thought he saw a figure darting between trees.

Max couldn’t make anything out. He wasn’t sure if the shadows that loomed above them were friend or foe. More leaves rustled, and Max’s paranoia heightened as he began to fear that something might be in the treetops.

Just as they were approaching camp, Max and Matt blacked out. A nearby tree had been hit with a relentless breeze which had broken a giant branch. It fell onto Max and Matt’s running forms, leaving them in a heap in the middle of the forest.

Still, the sure sound of footsteps wasn’t far behind.

 

 

IX.

 

 

Seeking refuge from the stinging and biting wind and hoping to keep from his band mates’ judging eyes, William Beckett crawled into Panic at the Disco’s tent, following behind Brendon who had abandoned the hammock as the rain began to pelt from the sky. Inside the tent, Jon and Spencer were both sleeping. From a distance, William thought he had seen Ryan fishing in the tumultuous ocean to no avail.

“What’s wrong, Bill?” asked Brendon. “You look down on your luck.”

“I don’t know what to do, Bren,” William sighed, carding a hand through his hair, which had begun to grow rather shaggy.

“About Gabe?” asked Brendon knowingly. It seemed everyone who surrounded him was hurting some way or another.

William nodded. “I told him I still loved him.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” asked Brendon, raising an eyebrow. “Love is love, right? Everything should be good.”

William stared at him bluntly, “Is that what you tell yourself about Ryan?”

Brendon stuck his tongue out. “Shut up.”

“You’re a shitty guru, Bren,” laughed William, and the laugh sounded so foreign from his voice. The last person who made him laugh like he was himself was Gabe, but he had truly fucked that up.

“I’m a guru who just doesn’t follow his own advice.” Brendon shrugged. “What’s stopping you from being with Gabe, anyways?”

“I have a girlfriend!” exclaimed William, frantically anxious as he usually was, “And so does Gabe!”

Brendon waved his hand in dismissal. “Gabe only has a girlfriend because he can’t have you.”

William blinked. “How do you know that?”

“Because he fucking loves you!” exclaimed Brendon, “I hardly talk to him, and I can tell from looking at him looking at you.”

“He looks at me?” asked William with a pink flush on his cheeks.

Brendon snapped his fingers to avert William’s attention again. “Hey, I thought I was the only one allowed to act like a teenage girl around here?”

“Sorry,” muttered William, chuckling a little because the tiff between Brendon and Ryan was entirely too juvenile, it was almost hilarious.

“Look, Bill, I’m not going to beat around the bush, here--”

“No, but you’ll beat off on it,” snickered William.

Brendon frowned at him pointedly. “What you need to do is just ignore everything else and do what feels right. March up to Gabe, grab him by his stupid face, and kiss him.”

“It’s not that simple!” insisted William.

“Yes, it is,” Brendon said matter-of-fact, “Kiss him and don’t stop kissing him. Fuck him, Bill. Do you hear me? Fuck him!”

William blinked, now blushing a beet red. “Brendon, maybe you should take your own advice?”

Brendon ignored him. “Gabe’s a physical man, Bill, you know that. _Show_ him you love him.”

“But what do I do about Christine?” exclaimed William. “And Evie?!”

“Don’t worry about that, William,” Brendon assured him, “Things have a way of working themselves out, in the end.”

Even as he said that, William couldn’t help but notice Brendon noticing Ryan, standing in the pouring rain still trying in vain to catch a fish.

 

 

X.

 

 

Gerard sat huddled in the tent with a razor to his wrists. Bob had visited Pete’s tent to talk fervently about more search efforts to find Frank, as nobody had seen or heard from him since last night. But Gerard couldn’t deal with it anymore. First they had lost Ray and Mikey; Gerard couldn’t lose Frank. Frank was the one person Gerard needed to survived.

It was silly to ever think that he and Lindsey were going to work. They fought from day one, and Bandit was born in a vain attempt to save their failing relationship. Still, that hadn’t worked. All their problems stemmed from Gerard’s friendship with Frank.

Lindsey suspected again-and-again that Gerard was cheating on her with his best friend. He had never cheated. Not once. He wasn’t that kind of guy, but then those repressed feelings came bubbling up every now and then. Originally, Gerard had married Lindsey (early on in their relationship) as revenge on Frank. They had been fighting. Frank had wanted commitment, and Gerard wasn’t ready for that leap in a relationship. He didn’t want publicity; he wanted sneaked kisses or blubbering excuses to their band mates as to why Gerard was in Frank’s bed again. But Frank had been adamant; he had told Gerard that he was sick of sneaking around and sick of Gerard’s ‘beard’ (Lindsey). 

Eventually, their fight had led to Gerard’s marriage and his unhappiness as of lately.

He fucking missed Frank.

But he had a family now, and he couldn’t sacrifice that for Frank.

But he could sacrifice himself for the happiness of everyone else. Lindsey could play the grieving widow and Bandit wouldn’t have to grow up learning that her father was a ‘fucking fag that had walked out on them for his band mate’. Frank could forget him and all the drama he caused. Life would move on; it always did.

Beside him was a torn page from his notebook, written in bold ink:

_**F,** _   
_**I DON’T LOVE YOU LIKE I LOVED YOU YESTERDAY.** _   
_**I LOVE YOU MORE.** _   
_**G** _   
_**PS, I’M SORRY.** _

Just as Gerard had begun to trace a line on his wrist, there were screams and shouts from outside the tent.

“Who’s that?!” someone shrieked.

“They’re jumping off that cliff!” another supplied.

“Somebody save him!” Bob’s gruff voice sounded, and Gerard’s heart dropped.

He dropped the razor, leaving it with the suicide note and ran out of the tent. Out on the precipice of the cliff, there was a tiny figure with their arms spread out, tiptoeing along the edge of death.

Then, without warning, the figure began to fall. Gerard squinted and could see a shirtless torso before it hit the water.

And before he could stop himself, he cried out, “That’s Frank!”

 


	7. Spells

I.

 

It seemed to happen in slow motion.

His stomach churned tumultuously, and he felt a nauseous feeling as his knees buckled. Gerard fell to the ground, feeling as though he was the one jumping instead, and all the air had escaped his lungs. He couldn’t breathe; his throat felt constricted, and he squeezed his eyes shut to allow the dizzying sensation dissipate.

Around him, everyone was still screaming, but shock kept their feet rooted in place. People pointed and murmured. Someone howled and demanded, “Save him!” Still, no one moved.

Frank continued to fall until there was a dangerously loud _smack_ from beneath the cliff. He had hit the water. The roar of the tide seemed to envelop him as the ocean echoed the sky and its thunder. Both the clouds and water were brewing a lethal concoction, and Gerard had a sickening feeling in his stomach that they were nothing but ingredients in a poison.

He wasn’t sure how long it took for the dizziness and nausea to leave him; but when it did, Gerard leapt to his feet frenziedly. Returning to reality, he thought of his best friend who had flung himself off the cliff. He thought of the slam of his body against the rippling ocean waters and began to run towards the scene of the accident.

Adrenaline pumped through his body, and his heart pounded loud enough in his ears that he could no longer hear the screams and worried whispers from the bystanders. Instead, all Gerard could hear was a replay of Frank’s body slapping against the Pacific. Thankfully, his thoughts were consumed by pure panic and worry that he didn’t have time to evaluate the possibilities of Frank not floating in the water where he felt- of Frank not surviving the fall.

As he ran, Gerard didn’t think about the possibility that the fall had mangled Frank: that he would have broken bones, could be paralyzed, could’ve drowned, or the impact against the water could have killed him. It was a long fall, after all. But Gerard couldn’t think about any of that. He didn’t notice the familiar and usually welcoming sting of his wrist from where the razorblade had slipped.

Gerard used to be addicted the pain of his wrists being slit open. He liked waiting for the pain to subside as the endorphins flooded to the injury. He used to count the seconds between the sting and the relief. It didn’t matter anymore.

Finally, Gerard made it to the shore, below the cliff, and waded into the turbulent waters. Around them, the storm waged on.

Rain pelted the waters around him, and he heard the pitter-patter that seemed to mock the smack of Frank’s body against the water. As he treaded through the water, squinting through the veil of fog and water to find Frank, the waves began to crash more periodically as the thunder growled menacingly above.

He was flung along with the tides, even as he tried to fight them. A particularly large wave reared forward and crashed over his head, swallowing him whole and flinging his body against a rock that jutted from the water.

Sharp, searing pain like Gerard had never experienced entered his arm, and over the roar of the storm, he could hear a faint crack of his body. He groaned, inadvertently swallowing a mouthful of water in the attempt. Choking and sputtering, Gerard managed to call out, “Frank?!”

There was no response, but Gerard wasn’t really expecting it.

He clung to the rock, hoping to hold out against the waves as he surveyed the area for Frank. Finally, he spotted a small black mop of hair floating slightly to the left of the cliff. Crying out for his friend again, Gerard jumped released the rock and began to swim towards the figure.

However, at that moment, pain like he had never known flooded through his entire body. He gasped and immediately grabbed for his arm, treading water to keep himself afloat and steady. His skin felt tender and sore as his fingers explored his bicep. They made their way down his elbow, and that’s when he felt it: a piece of bone sticking out of his skin.

Although he couldn’t see it, the very thought made Gerard feel nauseous and dizzy again. Now that he was focusing on his pain, he could even feel the slight burn of the salt water entering his open wound on his wrist.

He groaned and tried to keep himself afloat.

Another wave crashed down and engulfed him.

Gerard couldn’t fight himself from the pull of the waves with only one arm. He wondered how bad his broken arm was injured, wondered how bad the bleeding is. Then, he wondered if this was how he would die: bleeding out in the Pacific Ocean in a vain attempt to save his best friend.

Distantly, he thought of the suicide note he had left back at the tent, which had seemed to have happened in a different lifetime.

A part of him wondered if he hadn’t just gotten what he wished for.

 

 

II.

 

The rescue of both Gerard Way and Frank Iero was now in progress. Bob Bryar, Pete Wentz, and Patrick Stump had all offered to wade into the stormy sea to retrieve their friends. No one had returned, yet, and no word could be heard over the sounds of the storm. Feeling useless, Josh sat in his tent, closing his eyes and trying to convince himself this was a dream. Dan wasn’t dead, they hadn’t just lost Frank and Gerard in the monstrous mouth of the ocean waves, and Matt and Max would be back--

Josh jumped to his feet and looked around wildly.

Matt and Max had not returned. He swore they had left to collect fruits and nuts and fresh water hours ago! Squinting through the fog, Josh tried to make out any figures in the crowd that would resemble his friends, but the crowd of paranoia and shock had dissipated. Those who had chosen not to wade into the waters on a rescue mission were sheltering themselves from the rain inside their tents. 

Both wet and confused, Josh blindly ran out of the tent, heart hammering loudly inside his chest. It wasn’t long before he discovered that his legs had (seemingly of their own accord) run into the All Time Low tent, where their small group all had somber expressions on or seemed to be glaring at each other from the corner of their eyes. Josh tried to ignore the thickening tension in the air as he thought of Max and Matt.

“Have you seen Matt or Max?” asked Josh immediately.

Cassadee’s eyes widened. “They haven’t come back yet?”

He shook his head frantically. “I need to go in and find them.”

Immediately, Cassadee stood up. “I’ll go with you.”

Then, Rian Dawson stood up. “No,” he interjected, “I’ll go.” Then he looked at Cassadee and pierced her with a stare that was both stern and filled with fear. “Please stay here, Cass. Let me go. A-after all the crazy shit that’s been happening on the island, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

She narrowed her eyes defensively and crossed her arms. “But it’s okay for me to sit in the tent worrying about you?!”

“Please!” Rian pleaded. “I’ve never asked anything else of you…ever! A-and if you let me do this, when we get back home, I will make it my sole mission to put the toilet seat down every single time.”

Cassadee’s glare continued for only a second, but eventually a light smile (and even a slight chuckle) broke through her stony face. She pulled Rian into her arms and kissed him hard on the lips. “Alright, but you better fucking come back.”

He chuckled, too. “I’d be too afraid to leave you, anyways.”

Josh grinned lightly as Rian pulled on a jacket to go with him. He knew Rian very little, as the drummer was nearly as quiet as Zack sometimes, or he would sleep on the bus when the others were partying. After all, Rian wasn’t usually a big partier; he preferred to Skype with Cassadee before he fell asleep or curl up to watch movies with whoever chose to linger behind with him. But Josh now had a newfound respect for Rian, who was going to put his safety on the line for the sake of Josh’s friends. And while You Me at Six knew All Time Low more than fairly well, allegiances and friendships often changed in times of distress.

“I’ll go, too,” another voice offered, and Josh looked over to see Jack standing up.

He also saw Alex open his mouth (as though to protest like Cassadee) before immediately biting his lip and wrapping an arm around Tay. Meanwhile, Jack didn’t even spare Alex a glance as he strode out of the tent with Josh and Rian. 

Before them, the forest seemed menacing with the gray skies above and an eerie veil of mist rising from the ground and beginning to hang itself between the trees like spider webs. Ignoring the discomfort and warning in the back of his head, Josh entered the forest, squinting through the stormy darkness and trying hard to listen over the thunder for the sounds of his friends.

“You don’t think they went in far?” asked Rian in a low voice, trying carefully not to drown out any noises that might be from Matt or Max.

Josh shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Haven’t really been in the woods much to pick fruits. I’m bloody awful at it.”

“How can you suck at picking mangoes off a tree?” asked Jack in wonder.

He shrugged. “I get hungry.”

Jack chuckled and clapped Josh on the back. “No worries. I’m pretty pro at picking up nuts--” Josh chuckled, and Jack continued, though he was snickering too, “and I know where most of the spots are. Though, it’s going to be hell to find them in the dark.”

Josh hummed in agreement, but he let Jack sidle in front of him to lead the way. Blindly, they followed him. It was more difficult in the dark, but Josh was mildly thankful that the thick canopies of trees were proving to be the perfect umbrella against the onslaught of rain that continued to pour without abandon.

As they walked, he tried not to think about what would happen if they couldn’t find either of them. He tried not to think about how it felt when he lost Dan, or how much it had hurt knowing that he hadn’t apologized for that fight before Dan had died. All those things he had said…. Now, he tried not to think of all the things he _hadn’t_ said this time. He felt like a proper arse.

“Do you see anything?” growled Josh with irritation. Already, he had tripped over a log and gotten caught in a thorn bush. Jack and Rian were doing no better with the forest, as they had both cut themselves on branches, and Rian had walked through a spider web. 

The forest seemed to be at war with them, almost as if it didn’t want them inside.

“No,” said Jack apologetically, “but it is as wet as your mom in here.”

He and Rian laughed. Instantly, Josh was glad of Jack’s presence. Although he seemed to have been moping for the past few hours, Josh had to admit that Jack was resilient and always good-natured even in a crisis.

Before he could think of a witty response, Josh tripped over something (another log, more than likely) and fell to the ground. Face-first, he hit a small puddle of mud and spat out the disgusting, moist soil, gagging as he did so. He heard Rian and Jack’s footsteps stop immediately.

“You okay?” asked Rian.

“Tripped over a log,” snarled Josh in disgusting, aiming a kick at where he assumed the log was laying. However, where he expected his foot to smack against wood, all he heard was the soft impact of his foot against something…squishy? Josh tried to look for Rian and Jack’s figures in the darkness, hoping he didn’t sound as panicked as he was. “A-actually, don’t think it was a log.”

“What was it then?”

“I think--”

But Josh needn’t have said it. At that instance, Jack patted down his pockets only to find a lighter in his pocket. He lit it and managed to scout out the area where Josh had fallen.

And with fearful faces, they looked down to find Tino Arteaga’s body.

 

 

III.

 

The rescue attempt ended rather quickly. Everyone remained in their own tents, still waiting for the second attempt to end with (probably) similar results. The remaining occupants of the island seemed fearful to step outside of their tents. Everyone was wet and shivering, as the rain had extinguished their fires. Jon, Spencer, Brendon, and Ryan immediately changed out of their wet clothes, within the confines of their tent, and for a split second it felt like the old times when they would share dressing rooms.

Ryan tried not to dwell too much on that thought, as he purposefully averted his gaze from Brendon while they changed. He went as far to even slam his eyes shut tight, trying not to remember every contour and mark along Brendon’s body, but he couldn’t help it.

He thought of Brendon’s soft skin- or, at least, it had been soft. Brendon had been younger and boyish, and still had not grown into his awkward body, which had been complete with love handles and a pudge in his stomach and slight puppy fat on his cheeks. But Brendon had changed dramatically; and while Ryan would swear that he knew his body inside and out, he also yearned to relearn Brendon’s body with the way it was now. Remind himself of the way Brendon’s toes curled or his back arched of his neck craned. 

Brendon was all muscle now. Hardened expanses of muscle, instead of the soft and squishy, almost fragile, skin of his boyish self. His jaw line seemed more defined now, and the facial hair that was beginning to grow along Brendon’s jaw line only made him seem more masculine and… _rough_. Ryan wondered how his toes would curl now, or whether his back arched the same, or if his Adam’s apple would be more prominent when his neck craned and begged to be kissed by Ryan.

Feeling his face heat up from the thoughts, Ryan tried to push them down and collapsed onto the blankets when he finished pulling his pants on. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Jon and Spencer were already cuddled into each other, as they had become inseparable on the island in a way that Ryan wished to be with Brendon again. He could see Jon’s eyes were already closed and could hear his familiar snores issuing into the tent.

Glancing over at Brendon again, Ryan sighed. Taking the initiative, he scooted himself over onto Brendon’s single blanket. Brendon was pulling socks on to sleep in (though Ryan thought it pointless and had given up on socks, due to the rough and irritating sand that seemed to get everywhere).

“Hey,” whispered Ryan.

“Hey,” muttered Brendon, neither angry nor ecstatic.

“Did you ever finish your song?” asked Ryan casually.

“What’s the point?” Brendon flopped his head onto his pillow. “No one’s ever going to hear it performed. Looks like we’re not getting off this island.”

“It’s only been a week,” amended Ryan timidly.

Brendon shrugged in response.

“I-I really am sorry,” stammered Ryan, finally. It was useless trying to beat around the bush with Brendon. Whether Brendon liked it or not, they could both read each other like books.

Brendon’s body may have matured, but he was still the same boy from Las Vegas that Ryan had fallen in love with. He was still the same boy who had sang ‘A Whole New World’ to Ryan when he had visited him at the smoothie hut, during one of his shifts. He was still the boy who had shared a place with Ryan briefly when his parents had kicked him out. He was still the same boy who would guzzle down soda and talk for hours on a caffeine-induced kick. He was still the same boy, yet he was entirely different; and Ryan half felt himself fall in love with Brendon again.

“So you said,” Brendon mumbled.

“I mean it,” said Ryan, “I was stupid-- I-I was a prick. I hurt you. But that doesn’t change the fact that I loved you, Brendon… I still love you.”

Brendon snorted, “Funny way of showing it.”

“I treated you like shit, Brendon. I know I did. But you have to believe it wasn’t meaningless to me, none of it. It wasn’t even about the sex. I was insecure about my sexuality-- I was fucking confused by it! I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, but I was young and stupid. A-and then my dad died, and I realized he would never accept me, b-but it also felt like I no longer had to vie for his acceptance. I-I didn’t care; I wanted to be with you, but I guess it was too late to fix the damages my insecurity had caused….”

“Were you really insecure, Ryan?” asked Brendon, “Or were you just embarrassed by me?”

“Brendon!” exclaimed Ryan, startled. “I was never embarrassed by you. You were my best fucking friend, and I loved you. I thought you knew it. I didn’t think it needed to be said- not publicly, at least. Besides, we had agreed for the sake of the band not to go public….”

“Who would have really cared?” exclaimed Brendon suddenly, and Ryan could hear the cracking of his voice that signaled Brendon was on the verge of tears. “Honestly, Ryan, half our fan base was _praying_ that we were in love.”

“But we agreed….”

“You always played it safe, Ryan,” Brendon said, “a-and I really didn’t care. Honestly. I would’ve liked some spontaneity in our relationship, but I respected your boundaries and your comfort zones. But then you went to greater lengths to hide us from the public-- lengths like dating Keltie and ruining that poor girl’s life. What kind of heartless bastard dates a girl for the sole purpose of keeping the paparazzi from discovering his relationship with his band mate?

“But I could have forgiven that, Ryan,” continued Brendon, shaking his head, “I really could have, especially when you broke up with her. But then you wanted to continue our relationship like nothing had fucking happened! You wanted to pretend you hadn’t hurt me! You didn’t even apologize!” Now Brendon was properly crying. He sniffled and wiped at his eyes, and he turned away from Ryan, trembling in the cold at the same time. 

“I-I’m sorry,” choked Ryan. “I truly am, Brendon. I never meant to hurt you. I know I did, and I know I can’t take it back; but I’m trying to make up for it.”

“You broke my heart twice,” whispered Brendon.

“I’m so sorry, Brendon.”

“Yeah, well,” he said thickly, “I forgive you, Ryan. I truly do, but it still doesn’t change that fact.”

He fell silent, and Ryan was left to listen to the howls of the wind and rumble of the sky. Fitfully, he fell into a sleep where most of his nightmares consisted of Brendon’s sobs; though, when he woke up the next morning, he couldn’t quite recall whether those had really been a dream or not.

 

 

IV.

 

Groggily, he blinked his eyes open.

He felt numb and light, as though he were floating along clouds. Vaguely, he could hear the sound of rain pitting against the tents, but the thunder had dissipated and the roar of the waves had quieted, too, as though they also obeyed the god of thunder. He wondered if this was a dream; then, remembering previous events, he wondered if he was dead. Whether this was heaven or hell, he couldn’t quite decipher. It was chilly and slightly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t entirely awful. Gerard couldn’t quite think if purgatory would feel like that or not.

“How are you feeling?” The voice sounded familiar, and Gerard tried to open his eyes but his lids felt heavy with exhaustion, and he could only squint.

In front of him was a hulking figure staring down at him. All he could see was shadows and a magnificent, twinkling blue. For some strange reason, Gerard’s mind strayed to the scene in Harry Potter where Harry met Dumbledore at King’s Cross Station in death.

“D-Dumbledore?” slurred Gerard.

“I gave you a pain pill,” the voice said around a laugh, “and cleaned you up. Thankfully, the fracture wasn’t bad.”

“B-but my bones…” groaned Gerard, still feeling as though he were trying to talk with a piece of cotton in his mouth. Vaguely, he could remember feeling his bone through his skin.

“You had a few broken shells that had pierced your skin upon impact, but we pulled those out,” the figure explained, “Your wounds are cleaned and bandaged, and I made you a splint. It’s not much, but it will hold until help comes.”

At those words, Gerard’s eyes flew open, and he struggled to ignore the lethargy in his lids. In front of him, Bob was crouching over him. There was a sad smile on his face, almost pitiful in the way it gazed at Gerard. Gerard looked down at his right arm. Bob had, indeed, made a splint. Using the medical tape from the first aid kit, he had managed to secure a rolled up magazine against Gerard’s forearm, constricting movement of his elbow and his wrist. It wasn’t professional, but Gerard knew it was the best they had in their circumstances.

Finally, he muttered thickly, “W-where’s Frank?”

“Sleeping,” said Bob softly, “I gave him a pain pill, too. We need to be careful with those. Someone said we’re running low, I think. Dangerously low.”

“H-how is he?”

“Out of it,” Bob told him, “I asked him why he had jumped when we pulled him out of the water, and he started rambling all these insane things. Was talking all these things, talking about how he didn’t remember how he got there. Started talking about chess or pawns or something along those lines. And he just had this look about him, his eyes all wide, as though he’d seen something horrible.”

“Is he okay?” asked Gerard.

Bob nodded. “Probably in shock. Fuck, I’m worried about you two.” A look of worry and vulnerability fell on Bob’s face that Gerard couldn’t ever remember seeing. Bob had always been the tough one, the one who never cried, the one who they joked had a black hole where his heart should be. But things had changed detrimentally. Tears welled in the corner of Bob’s eyes and he carefully pulled Gerard close to him and buried his neck into his right shoulder. “I thought I fucking lost you both.”

Wordlessly, Gerard wrapped his good arm around Bob. He tried to find the words to assure his friend that he was here and he wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, but the thought of his suicide note made Gerard feel guilty, and he all he could do was squeeze his friend harder and try not to cry.

 

 

V.

 

The events from the night had shaken all the survivors on the island. While the rain had gentled into a quiet drizzle, everyone continued to remain in their tents, as though they were waiting for the night’s omens to be over with. In the morning sun, everyone would feel safer.

Unfortunately, Pete couldn’t share the same mindset. After he had dried off and changed into dry clothes (Patrick had nagged him until he had relented and done so), he had paced the small confines of the tent for at least twenty minutes before Patrick had demanded he lay down and tell him what was bothering him.

And Pete couldn’t say no to Patrick- not really and not anymore. Even though Patrick was married and Pete kind of had Meaghan (they hadn’t quite gotten to the stage where they had defined their ‘relationship’ yet), they seemed to have fallen into old habits, before either of them had strings attached. Patrick had begun to kiss Pete’s forehead, and Pete no longer made excuses to cuddle Patrick. Most importantly, though, Pete was free to kiss Patrick’s lips and whisper, ‘I love you,’ in that breathless manner where he still couldn’t believe this was reality and this angel in front of him loved the devil back.

“ _You’re not a devil, and you’re not an asshole_ ,” Patrick would tell him every time because Patrick still scolded Pete for claiming his lyric, _how to make boys next door out of assholes_ , drew a distinguishing line between boy-next-door Patrick and asshole Pete.

“What’s wrong, Pete?” asked Patrick in the here-and-now. Finally, he had gotten Pete to stop pacing and had let him lay his head in his lap. Gently, Patrick carded his hand through Pete’s hair.

“A lot of shit,” whispered Pete, as though that dismissed the looming conversation.

Patrick sighed, “Alright. Where do you want to start, then?”

“Trick….” whined Pete.

Frowning, Patrick gave a light tug on Pete’s hair. “Peter,” he said sternly, yet fondly (as Patrick was the only one, besides his parents, who was allowed to call Pete by his full name), “I’m not letting you close up and refuse to talk while bad things fester in your mind. You’re hurting, Pete, and I want to help you. I want to make it better. If you don’t tell me, we’re both going to go insane from it.”

Pete huffed in defeat. He could never deny Patrick anything. “I saw Andy and Joe,” he whispered finally.

Patrick blinked. “L-like, in a dream?”

Pete shook his head. “N-no. On the cliff. W-when Frank fell, I swear I saw them standing there.”

“Are you sure?” asked Patrick. He didn’t sound as though he were doubting Pete, but he knew Pete’s past experiences with hallucinations.

Pete nodded. “They were there. J-just staring, a-and watching Frank fall. A-and then they started talking to me.”

“What’d they say?”

Pete shrugged. “They were just egging me on, telling me to come up there and join them.”

Patrick’s eyes became stern. “Don’t be wandering off, Pete. Don’t ever wander off. Those are just hallucinations.”

“I know.”

“I think you need to start taking your medication again,” whispered Patrick timidly.

Pete buried his face into Patrick’s lap and wrapped his arms around Patrick’s middle, clutching him as though he would disappear any second. “I miss them,” he sobbed into Patrick, “I miss them so fucking much. Th-they were my family, Tricky.”

Patrick’s lip wobbled and he fought back the tears that threatened to poor out, as well. He ran his fingers through Pete’s hair and leaned down to place a kiss on his head. “I-I miss them, too, Pete. Believe me, I do. B-but we have to beat on- at least, for now. We have to make it off this island.”

“What’s the point?” cried Pete.

“Don’t talk like that!” exclaimed Patrick in surprise.

“It’s true!” howled Pete in pain, “When we leave the island, we’re going to have to live with nightmares of that crash, a-and we’re not even going to be in the same bed when either of us have the nightmares! You’re going to be with Elisa, and I’ll be with Meaghan, and everyone is going to pretend these days didn’t happen.”

“That’s not true, Pete,” Patrick said, strangely calm, “I love you, Pete. And now that I have you, I’m not letting you go, okay? When we get home, I-I’m going to leave Elisa. I’m going to be with you, properly, okay?”

“But you love Elisa.”

“I do,” hummed Patrick, “I care about her deeply. But I’m in love with you, Pete, and I have been since I was young. I-I’m happy with you, and I’m not going to deny myself that happiness anymore.”

“F-fuck,” groaned Pete, slowly lifting his head from Patrick’s lap and staring at him in amazement. “W-when did you grow up? Two years ago--”

“Two years ago, I would have let my insecurities to get the best of me,” finished Patrick for him, “but I watched my best fucking friends Joe and Andy die, and I’m not going to waste a single day, anymore. A-and I don’t know how many days we have in life, Pete, but I want every single one to be with you.”

Pete smiled and more tears fell down his cheeks, which Patrick reached out to wipe away with his thumb. But they weren’t sad tears; they were happy tears.

And he leaned forward to kiss Patrick, lips chapped and salty from tears. The kiss was desperate, and Pete grasped the material of Patrick’s sweater, half-afraid to let go. He wanted Patrick to kiss him so hard that he forgot all about his hallucinations and the figures of Joe and Andy on the cliff.

Gently, he nibbled Patrick’s lips, begging for Patrick to let him in and let him take things a bit further (nothing big, but all of Pete’s kisses with Patrick had been chaste, and it was hard to ignore the little devil in him that wanted to see Patrick writhing…). 

Patrick pulled away a hairsbreadth distance and whispered, “How about you take your medication first, Pete?”

And Pete smiled fondly because he couldn’t say no to Patrick.

 

 

VI.

 

Lightning struck. The rain had calmed for only a few seconds before it had picked back up again. While the worst of the storm was over, there were a few final dregs of it hanging in the air that began sporadically pouring down. Jon had been asleep for most of the night, cuddled against Spencer and holding him tight, realizing that wandering off on the island was dangerous, and he couldn’t bear to lose Spencer.

Spencer’s body was warm against him, and they kept each other cozy in the chilly night, even with the lack of blankets. Spencer’s foot stayed propped on Jon’s pillow, so they shared Spencer’s. It was therapeutic for Jon, anyways, to feel Spencer’s breaths splaying lightly onto his skin.

However, whether it was because he had become so accustomed to Spencer’s body and breathes or he just couldn’t sleep, Jon woke up next to an empty space.  
Immediately, he sat up and looked wildly around the tent.

It wasn’t like Spencer could simply walk away, as he had a sprained ankle. He thought of waking up Ryan and Brendon, but a part of him was hoping that maybe Spencer had limped away for a quick piss, and it would be futile to worry everyone over nothing- especially after the events of earlier.

Alarmed and heart hammering, Jon got up, slipped on his sandals and padded outside, squinting into the night. He could see dawn breaking on the horizon, a pale sliver of orange that was barely recognizable in the sable sky. The fog had lifted substantially, but there was still an eerie shroud of it that snaked around the ground and tangled around his ankles.

Finally, Jon noticed a small figure laying on the hammock near the woods. His heart pounded, but he was wary to approach it, remembering all the fucked-up incidents on this island. The figure was crouched in a fetal position and rocking back-and-forth.

Thankfully, lightning struck again, lighting up the sky and shedding enough upon the ground for Jon to see Spencer on the hammock.

Worried, Jon began to run over to his friend. The closer he got, the more he began to hear little whimpers and gasps issue from Spencer’s mouth. He sounded like he was crying, and he was whispering things to himself. To Jon, Spencer seemed delirious.

“Spencer, what’re you doing out here?” exclaimed Jon as he reached the hammock.

Instead of answering him, Spencer shrieked into the night, “G-get away from me!”

Jon’s brows knitted together in confusion. “I’m not going to hurt you, Spence,” he said calmly.

Spencer’s arms flew out in front of him, as though blocking Jon from coming any closer. “J-just stop!”

“Spencer, it’s me,” said Jon with increasing worry. Carefully, he took a miniscule step closer. “It’s me: Jon.”

“Don’t hurt me,” bawled Spencer, “Don’t hurt me like they did! Please!”

“Who hurt you?” asked Jon suddenly and sharply.

“Please!” Spencer continued to cry. He continued to rock back-and-forth.

On impulse, Jon almost ran to wake Brendon and Ryan up, as he didn’t know what had happened to Spencer. But then he noticed it out of the corner of his eye. It was a small baggie, similar to the one Jon usually kept his weed in. Unfortunately, it hadn’t held weed in it; Spencer had found the little baggie Jon kept the shrooms in.

Spencer was in the middle of a bad trip.

Without knowing what to do, Jon crouched down to eye level with Spencer, who’s eyes jumped around his head like a frightened fawn. “It’s okay, Spencer,” he whispered soothingly, “It’s not real. I’m here, and I’m real. And I would never hurt you.”

“They’re coming for me,” whispered Spencer pathetically.

“It’s not real,” Jon told him again, “but I’m going to save you, anyways.”

“Y-you are?”

Jon nodded and held his arms out in a welcoming manner. “You just have to trust me, Spence. I’m going to take you to bed, okay? Just trust me.”

Sobbing and sniffling, Spencer collapsed in Jon’s arms, shaking and twitching as though he had seen a ghost.

 

 

VII.

 

Dawn had arrived, slowly but surely. The storm subsided, and the island awoke, quiet and damp. Birds chirped in the forest, and the chirping crickets of the night died out. Even the roar of the ocean had calmed into its usual crash of the waves, neither threatening nor angry in manner. Last night seemed like a nightmare, and the island felt newly cleansed from the rain.

William awoke early, after another restless sleep. He had heard more strange noises in the woods. Branches creaking, feet pattering, and a very slight, nearly inaudible, human whisper. Upon waking, he tried to shake those out of his mind and assure himself that lack of sleep was starting to get to him. He was turning into Pete Wentz and starting to hallucinate. Not to mention, William no longer felt comfortable crawling into Gabe’s tent when he heard the noises from the forest. He felt like a burden who had come in and ruined Gabe’s life with a single lie and its confession otherwise. Even though Vicky’s words ran through her mind that Gabe loved him unconditionally and even Brendon had encouraged William to show Gabe how he felt to prove it to him, William couldn’t bring himself to make that move.

He was never the spontaneous kind, and Gabe knew that. William had never been good at making first moves. All of their firsts had been initiated by Gabe because William was too shy and awkward to even try to initiate. He simply wasn’t comfortable being put in that situation.

Instead of crawling into Gabe’s blankets, he had laid awake for most of the night, waiting for the first morning light to hit. Thankfully, dawn seemed to come early, and William set to work trying to find some dry twigs and branches to use to remake the fire. Finally, he tore a page from a notebook, which lit automatically and was able to keep the fire going with the damp branches he found.

The smell and warmth of the nearby fire immediately awoke a shivering Sisky and Butcher, who William had been vehemently avoiding since they had said those horrible things to him.

“ _This wouldn’t be the first time you played a joke on someone. What you did to Gabe for all those years?_ ” Sisky’s voice entered Bill’s mind as he watched them awake, stretch, and yawn.

“What time is it?” groaned Sisky.

Bill shrugged dejectedly.

“Needta piss,” mumbled Butcher sleepily, and he stumbled out of the tent to find a tree in the woods that would suit his fancy.

William focused his entire attention (and then some) on the fire, watching it blow with the light, wispy breezes and listening to its therapeutic crackle, which William had missed listening to at night (usually the crackling of the fire helped to distract William from the foreign sounds of the forest). He tried to ignore Sisky’s body crawling out of the tent and stretching in the morning light. He even tried to ignore the sound of Sisky’s feet padding closer to him.

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, “for starting the fire. I’m crap at that, b-but you’re not.”

William nodded, accepting the compliment. Feeling obligated to keep on with the conversation, he casually said, “My parents used to bring Courtney and I camping near Lake Michigan. Good for us, I guess, or we wouldn’t have a fire.”

Sisky chuckled, but it sounded forced. “You used to hate going up there in high school.”

“I hated lots of things in high school,” William reminded him.

Sisky laughed, and it sounded real, this time. “Yeah…. But you didn’t hate me.”

“No,” agreed William softly, “a-and I still don’t.”

Feeling more welcome, Sisky crouched down to sit next to Bill in front of the fire. “I’m sorry, Bill, f-for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s fine.” William shook his head. “It’s true, anyways.”

“It’s not true!” exclaimed Sisky, looking both shocked and offended. “I only said all that b-because I wanted to blame you for us being on the island. I mean, had you never asked for the reunion tour, we wouldn’t be stuck here, b-but it’s not your fault. Because I wanted to do it, Bill. I missed you like crazy. I wanted things to be like old times, and I was just frustrated and upset that this stopped it from being so.”

“I know,” whispered William, “Chizz and Mike are dead. Things will never be the same.”

“Th-that doesn’t mean we can’t be the same,” said Sisky, almost questioningly. “You’re my best friend, Bill, and I don’t want that to change again. I miss you.”

William smiled. It was a small smile, but he was trying to keep himself from crying out of joy and hugging Sisky and screaming that he missed that little idiot, too. “I missed you, too, Sisky.”

“I know you love Gabe,” Sisky assured him, “and I know you never played with his heart. But Gabe loves you, too, Bill. He doesn’t fucking shut up about you.”

And those were the words that broke William. Immediately, tears began to run down his face, and he threw his arms around Sisky’s neck, pulling his best friend close and trembling against him, just like old times.

Sisky hugged him in return, holding him tight.

And when Butcher returned, he took a seat on the other side of Bill, clapped him on the back and laid his head on his shoulder. No words were needed.

 

 

VIII.

 

It had been another restless night for Alan Ashby. Austin had threatened him with a sleeping pill, but Alan had lied and said he had already taken one to quell his friend’s worries. Ever since Tino’s disappearance, Alan had been unable to sleep; that was what grief did to him, anyways. It ate him alive.

He wished he was more like Austin when he grieved. Austin did everything perfect, and he even knew the perfect way to mourn. Austin slept a lot and usually tried to pass the trauma off as a dream because Austin took a long time to get over shock. To Austin, it almost felt like Tino had merely left a room, and he was waiting for him to return. Alan, on the other hand, assumed the worst, and he kept thinking that Tino was dead in the woods.

It wasn’t a very positive thought; and usually, Alan always assumed the worst.

When Tino walked out of the woods, Austin would tousle Alan’s hair and tell him that he had been right the entire time. 

“I knew you didn’t take a pill. Liar.”

Alan jumped and saw that Austin had awaken and was sitting up in his spot. He looked tired but content.

“I w-woke up early,” stuttered Alan.

Austin rolled his eyes, almost fondly. “You’re a terrible liar, Alan. You never look me in the eyes when you do it.”

And Alan knew that was true. How could he ever look Austin in the eyes and lie to him? Anytime he tried, all he could see was disappointment nestled in the deep hazelnut pools.

“Lay down with me?” Austin offered, just as he had last night.

Unable to say no, Alan conceded and crawled under the blanket with Austin. Austin wrapped a secure arm around Alan and pulled him close. The crisp chill of the morning had them both shivering, and Alan was grateful for Austin’s warmth (after all, Austin was like a working heater). Behind him, Alan felt the gentle tumble of Austin’s chest against him and could hear his deep breathing that he always honed in the morning, when he was still groggy with sleep.

“You’re worrying me, Alan,” Austin said.

“I’m fine,” Alan told him.

“Look me in the eyes and say that.”

Biting his lip and slamming his eyes shut, Alan wriggled in Austin’s grip until he was facing him. Alan was much shorter than Austin, and he craned his neck upwards to look into his eyes, as Alan was at eye-level with Austin’s chest, instead of his face. He stared into the brown pools, and he could feel a small part of his stomach warming, and he could feel butterflies flapping from his stomach, through his ribs, and tickling his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut to contain it.

Earlier, Alan had told Austin that he would save him; but now Alan felt like drowning, and he wondered who would save him.

“Look at me, Al,” Austin said softly.

Finally, Alan forced himself to open his eyes and stare into Austin’s. He opened his mouth in an attempt to lie to his best friend, but he was interrupted suddenly by the feel of Austin’s lips upon his. It was a short kiss. Just a simple pressing of lips together. But when Austin pulled away, Alan could feel his face nearly splitting in two from the smile that crept on his face instinctively.

“W-what was that?” he whispered giddily.

“A ‘thank you.’” 

“But that was on the lips….”

“You save me, Alan,” Austin explained. “Everyday, you’ve been saving me and keeping me sane. I want to keep you sane, too.”

Alan knew those weren’t exactly the words he wanted to hear. After all, Austin may be tiptoeing on the line between friendship and relationship, but he was only altering it as he went instead of making the full jump. And as much as Alan wanted to blow that line up, he respected Austin’s decision. 

He wasn’t even quite sure when it really happened: falling in love with Austin. He had always loved Austin Carlile but as a friend. And Alan had always thought of himself as straight, could never even picture himself with a guy. He supposed it must have happened truly on the island. Somewhere along the line, with all the tragedy around, Alan realized he could never live without Austin, and he never wanted to. Somewhere along the line Alan admitted something that he probably had always known: he was irrevocably in love with his best friend.

He wondered if Austin could feel the frantic beating of his heart when he had kissed him.

“I know I’ve been upset, lately. Depressed. In a shitty mood,” Austin went on, “but I’m afraid to lose you, too, Alan.”

“You’ll never lose me, Aus,” whispered Alan thickly and he wrapped his arms around Austin’s middle, pulling him close. “I’d never let that happen.” 

He even stared Austin straight in the eyes as he said that, trying to ignore the strange buzzing on his lips.

 

 

IX.

 

Dawn had only just risen, about an hour ago. The air was still crisp and chilly, despite the mugginess that pervaded it. Kellin, too, had not slept a single wink that night. He couldn’t. All he could think about when he closed his eyes was the gun he had found and buried. The feeling of the sleek, metallic instrument inside his mouth. The feeling of his finger on the trigger. And the anticipation and to pull it.

He had tossed and turned, and he had felt shitty about it, as he had chosen to sleep next to Vic for the night. Every time he turned and thought of the gun, he thought of Vic cuddled into his side. He thought of the disappointment if Vic ever found out what Kellin was thinking about. 

Finally, with half a mind to walk to the site and dig up the gun, Kellin shook Vic awake.

“Hmm?” groaned Vic into the pillow.

“Vic, wake up,” Kellin whispered.

He mumbled more incoherent words into the fabric.

“Vic.” Kellin shook him again. “This is important.”

After a few disoriented moments, Vic finally blinked into the pale light of the island and stared at Kellin, almost confused, as though he had forgotten they had fallen asleep tangled up in each other. Finally, he sleepily smacked his lips together and stifled a yawn. “W-what?”

“I need to show you something,” whispered Kellin shakily.

“Can’t it wait?” groaned Vic, falling back on the pillow.

Kellin shook his head and gave Vic another shake. He knew that if he didn’t do it now, he would never do it.

After a bit more grumbling and yawning on Vic’s end, he finally pulled on a light jacket and slipped on a pair of shoes. He followed Kellin blindly into the woods, and Kellin tried not to think how touching that was: that Vic would follow him anywhere without question. Kellin shook his head and tried to will that thought out of his mind. 

He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the idea of getting too close to Vic. Although they were best friends, Kellin didn’t want Vic to traipse over that line into a relationship that would involve commitment and the l-word. And it wasn’t as though Kellin didn’t love Vic. On the contrary, he was head over fucking heels for his best friend. But Kellin also knew that he was unstable and always seemed to hurt people in the end. Kellin could never bear to see Vic hurt- especially not because of him.

Not only did he hope that showing Vic the gun would draw that line between them more prominently and prove to Vic that Kellin was manic and too dangerous to be with, but he hoped it would calm the insane thoughts in his own mind to pull the trigger on himself. The thoughts haunted him at night and kept him from falling asleep. All he could think and dream about was dying.

And those dreams were always his favorite.

“Where are we going?” Vic asked groggily, and Kellin tried not to dwell on how adorable Vic’s low and scratchy growl of a morning voice was.

“You’ll see,” said Kellin and added, “We’re almost there.”

Finally, and after what felt like hours (for Kellin), they reached the clearing where Kellin had found the gun. He pushed the rock out of the way and began to dig. Vic watched him questioningly but was too tired to say anything but. Instead, he leaned against a tree to keep his tired form standing.

But as Kellin dug, the more he realized that the hole was becoming increasingly deep. Too deep…. Kellin had not remembered digging that deep to bury the gun. Frantically, he jumped up and pushed the only other rock in the clearing out the way. He began to dig there, too, and could feel the questioning eyes of Vic burning into his back as Kellin’s digging became more and more frenzied.

“What are you looking for?” asked Vic.

“I-it was here!” Kellin stammered. He stared into the empty hole, blankly.

“What was?”

“Th-the gun!” exclaimed Kellin. “I buried it right here!”

Vic’s eyes widened with fear. “You found a gun?”

“Yes! And it was right here!”

“D-did someone else dig it up?”

Kellin shook his head. “No, I didn’t tell anyone about it.”

“You’re positive you found a gun and buried it?” asked Vic. Kellin was surprised to hear that Vic didn’t sound disappointed in him. It was strange because Vic sounded worried about him, instead.

“Yes.” And that’s when it dawned on Kellin. He twisted around to face Vic and blinked in amazement. “Y-you don’t think I’m making this up, are you?”

Vic shifted on his feet and tried not to look Kellin in the eyes. “Well… you haven’t been sleeping much, Kel. A-and lots of people on the island have been hallucinating lately.”

In disbelief, Kellin shook his head. “B-but I’m not making this up, Vic. There was a gun. It was here! I buried it. I know I did!”

Vic’s bottom lip trembled, and he approached Kellin slowly before throwing his arms around the taller boy and pulling him close to him. “I think you’re sick, Kel,” he said thickly, “I think you’re sick, and you need help. I’m worried for you.”

He could feel the hot tears leaking from Vic’s eyes, onto his shirt. But all he could do was keep his arms limp at his sides. He wasn’t sick. There had been a gun. He was sure of it…. 


	8. Words Inside Bones

I.

 

“Where the fuck is he?!”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Where is he? He should’ve been back by now!”

“Alex, you need to sleep,” suggested Tay softly as she watched Alex pace around the beach, as he had been doing all night. His soft footprints indented the sand in circles around the campfire retracing his steps of the past twelve hours.

Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair, which was stringy and greasy and needed a wash; but Alex hadn’t had opportunity to bathe in the fresh water of the lagoon. His eyes were lined with dark bags that seemed to be trying to pull his lids closed, but he refused to give in to the temptations of sleep. 

“You need rest, Alex,” Tay said again, “Jack is fine, I’m sure. He’ll be back soon. Don’t worry about him.”

“I can’t help it,” mumbled Alex in return, scratching at his jaw. It was itchy with stubble that had grown longer than he would have preferred. In fact, Alex was in danger of growing a proper beard if he didn’t make time out of his day to shave again.

He had been awake, fretting over Jack ever since he had joined the rescue party. Several scenarios ran through Alex’s head: each more troubling than the last. Alex had thoughts of Jack not returning, or of Jack’s body returning (limp and unresponsive). He wasn’t sure when it happened exactly, but Alex had begun to fear the island- the forest especially. 

The gnarled trees that surrounded the island looked dying. Their bark was coarse and rough and many of the trees were surrounded with clusters of thorn bushes, as though the island were fighting back against their presence.

“Alex, come back to bed,” pleaded Tay. She looked worried, too, Alex could clearly see. But he knew that those anxious lines on her face were for Alex and not Jack. She was worried about Alex’s health and not the one who really needed both their prayers. But Alex could also see that the stresses of the island were finally taking their toll upon Tay, as well. She looked pale and fragile; and more often than not, he could see her shaking from cold chills even in the hottest parts of the day. In fact, if it weren’t for the small bump protruding in Tay’s stomach, Alex would’ve mistaken these pregnancy symptoms for life-threatening ones.

“I can’t sleep until he’s back here with me,” Alex said adamantly.

He felt both sick and dizzy, and he also felt like he wanted to fucking cry. The worry was gnawing him: feasting on his bones and making its way through his ribcage, consuming everything in its wake. Alex could feel it crawling towards his lungs and heart. His breathing felt constricted. Alex wondered what kinds of wicked monsters stopped your breathing. Would it be quick? Or would they wait to consume his heart? 

Because that was the truth of the matter: Alex couldn’t live without Jack. He knew he had been running from the obvious truth ever since the plane crash (actually, he had been running for longer than that, but it didn’t quite matter at the moment). Jack Barakat was in love with him, and he was fucked because he loved Jack back.

Alex had been trying to convince himself that he would only fuck it up in the ways he had with all his previous girlfriends. But the night’s worrying had opened Alex’s eyes to startling revelations.

He had tried to imagine his future with Tay- being married to her and starting a family- but he couldn’t. He fucking couldn’t imagine his life in a domestic relationship that he had made the mistake of initiating. All he could think of for his future was music and All Time Low. They had always been there for him. Those were constants in his life. And whenever he thought of music and All Time Low, he always thought of Jack.

Jack had always been there for him, from day one, when they had started planning the band. He was there when they got their big break, when they had their first headliner, when girls first started to throw their bras on stage and scream their names in the silence between songs. And Jack had never left. Not like Lisa. Not like any of the others. Jack had remained loyal to Alex, and the two of them had twined their destinies together until their futures were a result of their beating hearts in sync.

But as Alex looked towards the forest, he couldn’t see that same future nestled within the branches any longer. Sighing, he let Tay lead him into the tent and laid beside her, closing his eyes and trying to memorize her breaths. But all he could think of was Jack’s liquor-flavored breath against the nape of his neck as they squeezed into his bunk to watch Netflix after a show. And Alex found he couldn’t quite make room inside him to memorize both their breathing.

 

 

II.

 

 

It had been a long night.

And after administering a sleeping pill to Kellin, Vic had done nothing but hold the boy in his arms, kiss his sweaty hair, and cling to him as though he were going to disappear from Vic again and meander down to the rocks where he had frenziedly claimed he had found a gun.

Vic didn’t quite know how to handle it. He knew all about Kellin’s past and his struggles with suicide. Of course, he fucking knew. Some of the aspects of their relationship had been built on that mutual understanding of what it felt like to hate yourself or not want to exist anymore. After all, in high school, Vic had been more than familiar with these feelings of inadequacy and self-hatred; they had been his only friends until he had met Tony and Jaime and gotten his life together.

And even though he tried every day to get healthier and leave the past in those dark recesses of his mind, some days were harder than others for Vic. Sometimes the idea of the razor against his wrist was tempting. (When Cara broke his heart). And sometimes he would sit and write his own eulogy. (When Rachel broke his heart). Then there were nights when Vic would swallow pills and not remember his name because all he wanted to do was to forget himself. (When Nicole broke his heart). Sometimes, very rarely, he would chase the pills with the sharp taste of metal in his mouth, and he would pretend to pull the trigger. (When Kellin got married).

But now, Vic didn’t know how to deal with this situation. He was so used to being the broken one, the fucked-up one, that he had forgotten how to pick up the pieces. Over the years, he had forgotten how to be strong. The only strength he ever had was when he was on stage, and that was because most of the audience idolized him. 

Kellin needed him, though, and Vic couldn’t ignore the silent cries of help. 

As Kellin slept, head resting on Vic’s lap, Vic turned towards his band mates who were all pretending not to look.

“I don’t know what to do,” he finally admitted.

“With what?” Tony feigned stupidity.

Jaime thwacked his chest and decided to abandon the charade. “With Kellin, you nitwit!”

“Rude,” Tony muttered, rubbing the spot on his chest.

“Vic, sometimes you have to accept that we’re all human,” said Mike finally.

“What does that have to do with anything?!”

Mike frowned. His eyes were firm and sad. “You want to save Kellin, Vic, I know that. But you’re only just hanging on by a thread, yourself. You can’t save another person when you’re losing your own battle.”

Vic shook his head. “That’s not what this is about. Kellin and I are fine. I’m fine. I don’t have a hero complex or anything. I’m worried about him!”

“Neither of you are in any shape to be the saving grace of the story,” continued Mike, “Kellin is grieving, Vic, there’s not much you can do.”

Vic bit his lip. He had debated whether or not to tell his friends about the gun that Kellin had supposedly found. He didn’t want them to think Kellin was crazy, but he had run out of ideas. The only way Vic ever knew of coping with tragedy was escape. There was no escape available when they were all stranded here. 

Finally, staring intently down at the sleeping form of Kellin (with his tranquil face and slightly parted lips and tousled hair), Vic said, “He’s doing more than grieving, Mike. I-I think Kellin’s losing it. He said he found a gun.”

Jaime’s eyes widened in surprise, Tony’s jaw fell open with comical dramatics, and Mike sat up straighter, piercing Vic with a gaze he had not seen since Mike had asked to see his wrists one day. “What do you mean he found a gun?”

“He said he found a gun,” explained Vic, “He tried to show it to me last night, but when we dug it up… it wasn’t there.”

“This is serious, Vic,” Mike said, “You better not be fucking with us.”

“Why would I be fucking with you?!” Vic cried. Kellin twitched slightly in his, and Vic forced himself to lower his voice for the sake of his friend’s health. “This is serious, Mike. Kellin is going through some mental shit, here, and you all think I’ve a god complex.”

“No one thinks you have a god complex, Vic.” Jaime shot a look at Mike, who ignored it. “We just don’t want you diving in headfirst to save Kellin, when you have your own issues to sort out.”

“I know I have!” exclaimed Vic, “And that’s why I have to make Kellin better. I-I need him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony rolled his eyes in the same attitude he applied to anything: comic relief, “we get it: you’re hopelessly in love with him. You both need to stop pining. It’s making me sick.”

Vic ignored him and continued, as Jaime was thoroughly prepared to listen to his best friend talk about this, “Like, I know I have my own issues. He’s got some, too. That’s never going to change. But those nights when things start to get too hard… those nights when I feel like I could swallow an entire bottle of pills… or the nights when I want to remember what the razor feels like… I call him. And he calms me down. He chases that crazy out of my head. A-and I think I do the same for him. Otherwise, he would’ve pulled the trigger that night, I think. But he didn’t.” A small smile crept on Vic’s lips as he remembered the moment. “He didn’t pull it.”

(After knocking incessantly at the door, pounding and pounding, Vic had given up and circled to the back of the house where he knew Kellin’s window was never latched properly. Jiggling it open, Vic entered the house, straining his ears to hear some evidence that Kellin was home. None of his band mates had known of his whereabouts and Katelynne was visiting relatives two states over. And the last text Kellin had sent Vic was: _I’ll miss you._

Cautiously, Vic crept through the house, peering into the rooms. Finally, deducing that Kellin had not left (as his Toms were sitting by the front door and he never went anywhere without them on), Vic climbed the stairs to Kellin’s bedroom. And that’s when he heard it.

It was the faint clicking sound of a gun, as though someone had just loaded it.

Head spinning and adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins, Vic wasted no time in scouring the rest of the house and immediately headed to the master bathroom where Vic had heard the sound. He tried to think of what he could say through the slab of wood that would make Kellin unlock the door; but no sooner had the thought entered his mind, than Vic noticed it was a fruitless notion. The bathroom door was wide open. Vic had a front-row seat to the scene of Kellin, sitting on the ground with the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple.

Not wanting to scare him while his fingers were in the trigger, Vic cleared his throat. “K-kel?”

But Kellin didn’t seem at all surprised by Vic. He acknowledged him for a single second- a single second for Kellin’s splotchy red eyes to catch Vic’s- before he went back to staring at the intricate patterns of his bathroom tiling. 

“Kellin?” Vic repeated softly. Recognizing that Kellin was making no immediate moves to pull the trigger upon Vic’s interference, he padded slowly over to Kellin and sat down beside him. “Kel, what’s wrong?”

Kellin shook his head and pursed his lips around the barrel. His hands were clammy, and his finger was twitching at the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut tight to hide the pain in them from Vic, but tears managed to leak out anyways.

“Talk to me, Kel,” urged Vic, “Put the gun down and talk to me.”

Finally, after sniffling and trying to hide the tears from Vic, Kellin lowered the gun. He didn’t put it down or give it to Vic, but he tore it away from his head. “You shouldn’t have come,” he finally said. His voice was scratchy and coarse and fluttered into Vic’s ears like sandpaper.

“I was worried about you.”

Kellin shook his head, continuing in his same, choked voice. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. A-and I didn’t want to see you.”

Vic blinked, taken aback. “You didn’t want to see me.”

“No,” Kellin continued, “n-not like this. I-I wanted my last image of you to be from yesterday…when you came back from tour. A-and I was the first person you came to see.” He hiccupped. “A-and you spent the entire day with me. W-we watched lame movies a-and burned the food, so we had to order out. And then you fell asleep against me. I wanted that to be my last memory of you. Not this.”

“Then don’t let it be,” said Vic softly. Part of him wanted to reach out and snatch the gun from Kellin’s hand. He wanted to push at Kellin and hit him and scream at him until his lungs gave out. He wanted to cry and demand why Kellin would do this. He wanted Kellin to hold him and shush him and promise never to do it again.

Kellin didn’t say anything. He stared down at the gun.

“Kellin, don’t do this,” Vic said, “please don’t. Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it. Please… trust me.”

“I do,” said Kellin finally, “I do trust you.”

“Then give me the gun.”

Kellin stared at the gun for another moment while Vic held his breath. Finally, sighing, he set the safety and handed the gun to Vic. Then he broke down. More tears spilled from his eyes, and he choked.

Immediately, Vic engulfed his friend and let Kellin bury his face into his neck. Hot tears spilled onto his skin, but Vic ignored that and rubbed Kellin’s back, trying desperately to quell him. “It’s okay, Kellin,” Vic whispered, “I’m here. I’m always here.”

“But you’re not,” mumbled Kellin. “When I wake up sometimes, you’re not here.”

“Katelynne’s here.”

“Katelynne’s not you,” mumbled Kellin.

Vic wrapped his arms tighter around Kellin and kissed his hair. The faint smell of booze was recognizable on Kellin.

“I love you, you know?” whispered Kellin. “I love you so much, Vic.” And he kissed the skin that was now wet with tears.

Quickly, Vic stammered out an excuse to take Kellin to bed. After tucking him in, Vic laid awake the entire night, trying to think of what this would me. He loved Kellin, too- that he knew as a fact. But Kellin was with Katelynne. 

He had only just decided that maybe they could work something out when Kellin woke up the next morning acting like nothing had happened. They never talked about it again, and Vic felt like he was nothing more than an anti-depressant at times.)

And even though Vic had desperately wanted that to be the start of a relationship, the fates had decided against it. But Vic was glad. He wouldn’t change a single second of their lives together just for that one night. They were here, they were together, and they were keeping each other sane. That was all that mattered.

“Are you okay, Vic?” asked Mike.

Vic nodded. He didn’t know whether that was true or not, didn’t know if telling his friends about this helped the situation or not, but he had Kellin. And Kellin always chased the demons out of Vic’s head; in return, Vic kept Kellin from pulling the trigger.

 

 

III.

 

  
At daybreak, when most of the residents had awaken, Josh, Jack, and Rian returned from the forest. They had camped beside Tino’s body in the night, afraid to go any further and get themselves lost, as well. None of them had slept, but they had stayed awake, talking, too afraid to let their guard down in the woods. The woods felt diseased, as though the trees inside were sickly and everything was dying. Finally, they trekked back, carrying Tino’s body and lacking Matt and Max.

Immediately, a fretting Cassadee ran up and embraced Rian. She scolded him for worrying her and told him he needed to clean himself (as he was caked in mud), but then she had kissed him, even with all the dirt on his face. Then, Josh sulked back to his own tent, exhausted and weighed down with the image of Tino’s dead body; Austin Carlile and Alan Ashby had come to pay their last respects to their friend, and he was in good hands now.

Meanwhile, Jack saw Alex out of the corner of his eye. Even though Tay had urged Alex to come to sleep, he couldn’t stay sleeping and had sat at the entrance to the tent, his eyes trained on the woods in hope. But the look that Jack pierced Alex with was not elation: it was disappointment. Wordlessly, he set off towards the ocean- presumably to rinse himself off, as he was also caked in mud.

Alex watched with sinking happiness as his friend purposefully avoided him. Cassadee had been right; this engagement was hitting Jack exactly where it had hurt the most. But it wasn’t any easier on Alex! What did they expect him to do? He couldn’t leave the future mother of his child to frolic into the sunset with his best friend. It didn’t work like that. In the real world, people broke up and fell out of love. In the real world, people forgot what their ex-lovers’ breathing sounded like.

Tay was awaking behind Alex; he could hear the rustling of the blanket and the pillow. Her lips smacked sleepily, and she yawned to hide a groan that was no doubt the result of pregnancy pains, which were not boding well for her, as she was hardly nourished to keep one person alive let alone two.

“What’s going on?” she asked sleepily.

But Alex ignored her. His heart was now beating in his head as he watched Jack strip off the muddy shirt and toss it to the sand. Alex had seen Jack shirtless hundreds of times (had even seen his dick), but never before had Alex realized that Jack’s body was the only body he ever wanted to press himself against. It was the only body he wanted to memorize. All the contours and dips and (im)perfections. 

The waves crashed along the shore and drowned out Tay’s questioning voice.

After another painstaking moment of watching his best friend ignore him, Alex jumped up from his spot at the tent’s entry and took off towards the undertow, which was now tickling Jack’s ankles as he began to take slow steps towards the Pacific waves.

His heart beat loudly, and his adrenaline seemed to make it echo through every part of his body. He couldn’t hear his feet hitting the sand, couldn’t hear Tay calling after him, and he couldn’t hear the hushed whispers of Cassadee and Rian (who were both watching expectantly).

But Jack heard him.

Alex should’ve known Jack would hear him. Jack knew as much about Alex as Alex knew about Jack. Vaguely, Alex wondered if Jack could count his heartbeats in the same way Alex could count his.

Jack turned around to snap at Alex. It was obvious that he wanted to be left alone, that the pangs of heartbreak were still too recent for him to have it thrown in his face by Alex, himself. But when Jack turned around, Alex realized he didn’t want to talk. There was all the time in the world for talking.

Besides, just a few hours ago, Alex had thought Jack dead. Nothing could compare to seeing him alive. Nothing could stop him from seizing this moment and doing what he should’ve done a long time ago. Not Tay. Not this island. And not Jack Barakat.

Before Jack could even open his mouth to snap at Alex, Alex grabbed his friend’s shoulders and yanked him down to seal their lips together. It was sloppy and definitely not new territory between the two friends. They had kissed several times (because they were drunk, because fans were screaming in the audience, or just because). But this time was different. This time, Alex kissed Jack like he was starving. He kissed him like he had discovered something that couldn’t be put into simple words.

And when Jack began to return the kiss, just as passionately, Alex felt his stomach lurch. He wrapped his arms around Jack’s neck and tugged the taller boy closer down to his height. The foamy ocean water licked at their ankles, and Alex almost lost his balance in the current’s pull. Jack laughed against Alex’s lips and tightened a grip around his waist, holding him there.

Alex didn’t care that Jack was muddy or hadn’t shaved in a few days. He didn’t care that he smelled like moss and mud or that his breath tasted yesterday’s meal. All Alex cared about was the way Jack’s body was pressed against his, and the way that Alex knew Jack felt like an extension of himself from the way that their breathing had inadvertently synchronized over the years.

“Jack,” Alex managed breathlessly as they pulled apart. All he could see was his best friend’s smile restored to its former glory. His face seemed to glow in a way it hadn’t yet in the tropical sun, and every touch of his fingers trailing up Alex’s back seemed to set the latter’s body on fire. “I love you. I-I’m sick of pretending I don’t. I’m sick of trying to please others. I stayed up all night waiting for you to come back. I-I thought I’d lost you.”

Jack chuckled and tugged Alex as close as humanely possible. “It’s about time you came around, Gaskarth.”

Alex frowned. “What do you mean?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “You act like I don’t know everything about you, Lex.”

“You knew I was in love with you?”

“Who wouldn’t be in love with me?” asked Jack. “I’m fucking sexy.”

Alex laughed and crashed their lips together. Smiling against Jack’s lips, he wondered whether this was the first time he had truly felt happy since the plane crash. 

“Oi! Horndogs!” Cassadee’s mocking, but amused, voice sounded from the shore. “Get a room!”

“No can do!” Jack called back, and Alex was glad to hear the giddy euphoria back in his voice. “I’m kind of an exhibitionist!”

Cassadee groaned. “If I have to see your dick one more time, Barakat….”

But she had trailed off as her eyes were averted behind her. Alex squinted past only to see Tay’s face as she struggled to hold back tears.

 

 

IV.

 

 

Grief had begun to corrode their bodies until either of them felt sickeningly similar to the corpse at their feet. The raw feelings ate away at their flesh, picking layer and layer away from their skin, until their bones were glistening in the sweltering sun. Soon, the grief began to gnaw at their bones, crunching and cracking them until both men had sunk to their knees, the coarseness of the skin scratching at them. 

One of them surrendered and began to cry. 

“It’s alright, Aus,” Alan lied. He wanted to join his friend and cry and let him know that he wasn’t a heartless, unfeeling bastard. But a part of him had been expecting Tino’s death, and now he was numb to the reality of it all.

“How can you say that?” choked Austin, wiping the tears on his shirt. He looked so vulnerable (was so vulnerable) in that instant, and all Alan wanted to do was wrap his arms around him and allow Austin to cry against him. He wanted to feel Austin’s trembling body and know that his own body was a source of comfort for him.

But grief was a selfish monster, and it refused to share Austin Carlile.

“Why?” cried Austin. This time he flung himself at the body and wrapped his arms around Tino’s waist in a haphazard, unrequited hug.

“Don’t ask me that,” growled Alan, “you know there’s never a reason.”

He had been fighting furiously with the grief that was threatening to consume him, as it had consumed his friend. Only last night Alan had felt helpless and had needed Austin to reassure him of his worth. His lips still tingled in a jeering reminder at the fact that he was losing it again and Austin only regarded him as an anchor to keep him at bay.

Wordlessly, Alan began to build a fire. They were down the shore the campsite, seeing as Tino had been their friend. Tino wouldn’t have wanted fake, or half-hearted, condolences. He would’ve wanted Austin and Alan here with him, in his last moments. There was nothing more appropriate to do than to burn him. They dared not bury his body on this wicked island that had infused itself with their own nightmares, and they couldn’t even fathom just throwing his body into the ocean as though it were another piece of trash.

Austin clung to Tino while Alan worked.

Alan was always the one pushing on, even when he wanted to fall apart. Someone had to do it, and Austin never seemed willing to take that responsibility off of Alan’s weighted shoulders.

Finally, Alan was able to ignite a decent fire. The logs cracked, and the smoke filled a small perimeter around them. Austin coughed until it cleared.

“You have to let go of Tino, Aus,” said Alan softly.

Austin relaxed his grip, but he didn’t want to let go.

“Please, Austin,” begged Alan, “don’t make this harder for me.” He was sick and tired of playing this role: the strong one, the resilient one, the survivor. Sometimes, Alan just wanted to break down and have someone hold him, instead of kissing him without putting meaning into it.

Trembling, Austin slowly released Tino, his shirt riding up slightly.

Alan blinked and leaned down, squinting through the veil of smoke to stare at the markings on Tino’s body.

“What?” asked Austin before he, too, looked down and noticed the strange markings on Tino’s body.

Many of them resembled Greek letters that Alan couldn’t decipher. There were a few other letters in different languages that Alan couldn’t even begin to fathom as to what they were. Then, there were three rippling waves running along his ribcage and snaking up it as they transformed into tree branches. Finally, at Tino’s chest, Alan could see a deep, black apple upon his skin.

“What is this?” asked Austin.

Alan shrugged, lost in his own mind. Carefully, he reached out and rubbed at one of the marks, but the black marks didn’t smear or wear off. Instead, they shone proudly on his skin like a morbid tattoo.

“These were post-mortem,” decided Alan. After all, these were hardly images Tino would want on his body, and there was no sign of struggle against him. But he wasn’t sure what they were made of. While they resembled tattoos, Alan doubted they were ink. That was too innocent for the cruelty of this island.

“What do they mean?”

“No fucking clue.”

“Someone else is on this island with us,” said Austin, looking over to Alan for validation.

Alan nodded.

And Austin squeezed his eyes shut, whispered ‘fuck’, and let the tears fall freely down his face once more. His body shook with the weight of the grief, and he surrendered to the hungry monster to let it feast upon his insides. Casting a pitying gaze at Austin, Alan forgot why he had been bitter towards his friend in the first place. Yes, Austin had kissed him on the lips, but he hadn’t known that it meant so much to Alan. 

Besides, Austin needed Alan right now; and whether or not Alan wanted to play the role or not, he was always regarded as Austin Carlile’s anchor: his knight in shining armor.

He wrapped an arm around Austin’s shoulders and pulled him close, trying to fight the grief away and keep himself composed. Austin shook against him, burying his face into Alan’s chest and wrapped his arms around his waist, seeking comfort.

Alan held him tight and buried his face into Austin’s shaggy hair, wishing this meant half as much to his friend as it did to him.

 

 

V.

 

 

He was disoriented. His body felt numb, his tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth, and he felt a thin film of musty sweat covering his body that made his clothes stick to him in the most uncomfortable way. Squinting into the brilliant sunlight of the tropics, Max Helyer could make out the form of his friend beginning to sit up beside him. Rubbing his head and feeling a bump on it, Max grunted, “What happened?”

Matt didn’t answer. He blinked several times, as though trying to adjust to the ideas of morning and sunlight. Finally, he rubbed his eyes and shook his head, moving each limb along as though trying to gain the feel for his body again. Max watched this strange ritual before taking part in it too, reveling in how each of his limbs felt new as though they’d never been used before.

With shaking legs, he finally mustered the energy to stand up and helped Matt up from the ground. Both of them were caked in thick mud, leaves, and a few twigs that had wound themselves in their hairs. Max shook what twigs he could out of his hair, which had grown much too long on the island. He was desperately hoping for a rescue team soon; he longed to return home, have a haircut, a decent shave, and a proper shower. 

“What happened?” he asked again.

Matt shrugged, looking as dumbfounded as Max felt. Finally, he said slowly, “I think the storm dropped a tree branch on us.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” Matt pointed to a bulky branch that was now lying at the ground by their feet. “The wind and stuff blew this branch right off that tree. And it fell onto us.”

“Well, I feel lame,” said Max finally, “It’s not even that big. Josh will have a proper laugh knowing both of us were defeated by a bloody _stick_.”

“We can exaggerate the details,” Matt said, hardly paying attention. He was scanning the area and trying to reacquaint himself with the surroundings in order to find the campsite again. At last, he pointed to his right. “This way back, then.”

“Are you sure?” asked Max.

“I’m Asian,” Matt said, “if my continent can keep the Huns out for centuries, I think I can get us back to the camp.”

Max gaped. “Excuse me! You snap at us for making fun of your driving because it’s a stereotype. You can’t use your race against us, now!”

Matt rolled his eyes. “You’re so bloody white, Max.”

“At least I can merge in traffic,” grumbled Max, but Matt ignored the statement.

They clambered through the woods with pulsating headaches and a slight disorientation. Max tripped three times on overgrown roots, and Matt walked into a tree, as well as jumping at every snapping twig beneath their feet.

Neither were more happy than when they saw the white sands of the beach and ran out of the woods, feeling a whole lot better than they had a few minutes ago.

“Freedom!” exclaimed Max. The air was richer on the beach than in the forest. In the forest, it felt as though he had been suffocating. “You’re a regular Chris Columbus, mate.”

“Yes, well, watch your stereotypes, or next time I will enslave you and give you small pox.”

Max chortled, not noticing in his amusement that Josh was marching over. His fists were clenched, and his steps were heavy. Matt slinked away quickly towards the tent.

“What the fuck?!” snapped Josh.

Max jumped at his tone and blinked up at him innocently. “W-what?”

“Where the fuck have you been?” shouted Josh.

Max blinked and tried to string together a coherent sentence, but only stuttered consonants left his mouth.

“Where the fuck were you?!” demanded Josh. He jabbed his finger at Max’s chest and began to predatorily back him into the woods again. Little by little Max could see the receding beach, as he tried to walk backwards without tripping and falling. He wondered when Josh would halt and just let him explain what happened. He wondered when Josh would quit yelling at him.

“You could’ve died!” he screamed, the incessant rant echoing in the forest, “You could’ve been hurt! You can’t just fucking run off whenever you feel like it, Max. You could have fucking died?!”

Max’s face hardened, and he held Josh’s gaze, which was burning angrily and cooking in his deep eyes. The blues of his iris were nothing but turbulent waves that had cornered them into this patch of land in the first place. “Why the hell do you care?” Max finally spat. “All you do is patronize me, anyways.”

His head was reeling, and all he wanted was some peace and quiet. And Josh was screaming in his bloody ill.

“You’re a fucking wanker, Max!” shouted Josh, but Max swore he could hear a familiar fondness in the insult. “You could’ve died….”

And before Max could open his mouth to say something patronizing back to Josh, Josh had crashed their lips together. It was sudden and unexpected, and Max made a surprised noise in the back of his throat that Josh swallowed greedily.

Josh’s kiss was rough and a passion that Max had never known. He closed his eyes, squeezing tight as though to hold onto this memory. For years, it had been Max pitifully pining for his best mate: for those fleeting touches when Josh’s fingers would brush against his in their strides or when he’d throw an arm around Max at one of their shows, for brief eye contact, for any kind of words Josh had to offer him that could give him some kind of hope that his feelings were returned in some shape or form. But this was something unlike any of Max’s fantasies.

This was real and raw and nothing Max had ever known. Josh’s fingers gripped his hips tightly, and Max made a mewling noise into Josh’s mouth, arms automatically reaching up to grip Josh’s shoulders. His fingernails dug ruthlessly into the bare skin of Josh’s shoulders, as though to desperately try to remind Josh of reality. That he was Max and not Dan. That Josh didn’t have these feelings for Max. That he couldn’t…never in a thousand years could he return these feelings….

But Josh didn’t reel back or snap into reality or do anything of the sort. Instead, he pushed Max harder against the tree until the younger could feel the rough bark of the tree begin to scratch at his back. He held onto Josh tighter, feeling his legs beginning to give out beneath him.

Josh’s teeth began to bite ruthlessly at Max’s lips, and Max swore he could taste blood. He tried to match the movements of Josh’s lips against his, tried to match the way his tongue explored Max’s mouth, but it was a futile effort. Max was simply unprepared for all of this.

Finally, Josh stopped brutally attacking Max’s lips, and he began to plant kisses down his jaw line, which were much more gentle and apologetic. Max’s voice came out in raggedy gasps, and he couldn’t even formulate an intelligent thought.

“J-josh--” His name burned leaving Max’s lips.

And Josh must’ve felt the sting, for he stopped leaving kisses upon Max’s skin; instead, he buried his face into Max’s neck, his own breaths erratic and heavy upon the other’s skin. “Fuck, Max,” whispered Josh, “you could’ve fucking died.”

“Josh,” Max said, shakily and small, “I-I’m not Dan.”

Josh froze. His breathing seemed to level out, and he pulled away from Max, who was now sweaty and embarrassingly hard against the tree. His hair was disheveled, there were love bites on his neck, and faint bruises on his hips. Without Josh’s body against his, he felt exposed.

“Fuck you, Max!” spat Josh.

“J-josh,” Max tried, but it was too late.

Josh had stormed out from the woods and returned to the campsite.

Max took a deep breath and slid down the tree to the ground. He wanted to cry. So many years had he dreamt of this moment, but never had he imagined it would end like this. He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever really known Josh because back in England, Josh hadn’t been like this. Sure, he had often been moody and brooding. But he had never been so terrible to Max. And Max, he was beginning to wonder if he was losing sight of himself.

All he’d ever wanted was the feeling of Josh Franceschi’s lips against his, but now the remnants of the touch felt like a lie.

 

 

VI.

 

 

His entire body ached. It felt as though he had been thrown from a very high height, or something equally as painful. Groaning, Spencer tried to sit up, but he immediately felt a hand on his chest gently prodding him back to the comfort of the blanket. A familiar voice washed over him like a pain killer, “Lie down, Spence. You’re okay.”

“What happened?” he managed to ask in a rough voice that sounded like sandpaper. His tongue felt heavy and dry inside his mouth, and he was immediately handed a bottle of water, which he managed to down (after slopping much of it down the front of his shirt).

“You’re an idiot, Spence,” Jon whispered fondly, cupping Spencer’s cheek and wiping the sloshed water from his skin.

“You can’t do that to us,” Brendon’s voice said from beside Jon. Spencer squinted through the bright light to see a disappointed, yet worried, look on his best friend’s face.

“Yeah,” affirmed Ryan. Spencer almost gaped upon seeing him and Brendon standing so close and being so…domestic. They weren’t fighting, and that was a first. “You’re awful, Spencer. You know the stress isn’t good for my complexion.”

“Sorry,” said Spencer feebly.

But Ryan laughed; and two seconds later, he was atop of Spencer, hugging him tight and refusing to let go, whispering, “I thought we’d lost you, you fucker.”

With heavy limbs, Spencer wrapped his arms around Ryan, reveling in the deeply-missed feeling of hugging his once-best friend. He wondered when they had properly done this last. It had to have been some years. Spencer was surprised to realize how much he had missed this, even if Ryan’s limbs were angular and sharp against him.

“Not to mention,” Brendon pointed out, “if you copped it, Ryan would go back to his emo-songwriting stage, and we’d have to listen to songs with titles too long to remember.”

Spencer and Ryan laughed as the latter scrambled off of his friend. Brendon steadied Ryan into place beside him, and the two shared a look with lips quirked upwards and a light in Brendon’s eyes that Spencer had thought had properly gone out since the break-up.

He shrugged. “The song titles seem to be doing you justice. You fucking butcher them up all the time. ‘The Only Difference Between the Four of Us is Our Penis Sizes?’ Really? At least, I’m classy with my vulgarity, Urie.”

Brendon snickered, “All apologies, _Mr. Darcy_.”

Ryan glared, but Spencer could tell it was nothing but playful taunting. “You don’t even know who Mr. Darcy is.”

Brendon shrugged. “Someone from a Chuck Palahniuk book, I’m assuming.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Brendon adopted a posh British accent. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single band member in possession of great idiocy must be in want of an insult.”

Ryan gaped.

Brendon laughed, “See? I’m literate now, Ryan.”

“Well then,” retaliated Ryan, “it is a truth universally acknowledged that single musician in possession of great songwriting skills must be in want of a band.”

“Is that why you went solo?” teased Brendon, but Spencer noticed the way his smile lit his face up.

“Anyways.” Jon turned his attention solely at Spencer. He could see the worried lines across his face and deep bags under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept at all last night. “How are you feeling, Spence? Better?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t you ever fucking do that to us again,” said Jon sharply.

“Yeah!” Brendon and Ryan rejoined the worried Jon in scolding Spencer.

Spencer couldn’t help but smile. Even though he was in immense pain and his joints were sore (and he couldn’t even properly remember what had happened last night), he couldn’t help but feel like they were a family again.

“There was a reason I didn’t want you doing shrooms,” continued Jon, “I didn’t want you having a bad trip.”

“But you were ready to do them with Cassie!” argued Spencer.

Jon’s face faltered. He glanced over at Ryan and Brendon before pulling Spencer close for a hug, kissing his cheek, and whispering in his ear, “I thought I’d lost you, Spence. I never want to feel that way again. I fucking lost you once, and I never want to experience it again. Ever.”

Spencer blinked, clearly not expecting those words. Finally, he forced his arms to wrap around Jon’s neck as tightly as they could, holding onto what he could of Jon Walker before they were reintroduced to reality or before the island took its final toll upon them.

When Jon had released Spencer, he laid beside his friend. Brendon and Ryan joined them, all trying to squeeze their heads onto Spencer’s pile of pillows. He grinned and closed his eyes, trying so hard to pretend that they were all on a tour bus again.

 

 

VII.

 

 

Night had begun to creep upon the island again. The hysteria of the day slowly calmed down until the only sounds to be heard were the crackling fires, the incessant crashing of the waves, and the strange insects all chirping noisily within the forest. Many of the survivors, burdened by grief from heartbreak or death, had gone to bed (Alan and Austin were tangled in each other, and Tay was falling asleep, trying not to cry). But Pete couldn’t sleep for the life of him. Although Patrick was tucked in his side like a missing puzzle piece, Pete couldn’t even find comfort in the younger man’s steady breathing.

All he could hear was something whispering to him in the darkness.

“Come,” it cooed. “Come to the forest.”

He squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried hard to focus on the sounds of Patrick’s soft snores. All he wanted was a distraction. All he wanted was to wake Patrick up and kiss him until his own head was nothing but a blur. But he knew Patrick was already worried to death over him, and he didn’t want to be another reason why Patrick was losing sleep. 

But closing his eyes was useless. Whenever he closed his eyes, the voice only took another shape.

Immediately, it materialized in his mind as Joe. “Into the forest, Pete,” his dead friend urged, “It’ll be quick. It won’t hurt a bit.”

Then Andy would nod along and say, “Death is easy, Pete. Too easy. Just like falling asleep.”

“Join us,” they’d say in unison.

But Pete couldn’t deal with that. The temptation was overwhelming. All he wanted to do was fall asleep and not wake up, rejoin his friends and be happy once-and-for-all. But then he’d think of Patrick, and he knew he wouldn’t ever be properly happy without Patrick by his side, either in life or death.

Joe and Andy began chanting relentlessly towards Pete; and finally, he screamed into the silent of the night. He wailed and cried and thrashed around, begging them to stop. He didn’t want to go; he didn’t want to leave Patrick.

Patrick immediately woke up, sitting up as quickly as possible, and squinting in the dark at Pete. “What’s wrong?” he whispered softly, scooting closer to Pete and throwing comforting arms around his friend.

Pete shook in his grip, grabbing his hair and rocking back-and-forth in Patrick’s arms. “I keep hearing them, Trick,” cried Pete softly, “Andy and Joe. They keep talking to me.”

“What are they saying?”

“To go into the forest,” sobbed Pete, “Can’t you hear them?”

“I can’t hear a thing,” said Patrick sadly, only tightening his grip protectively around his friend. 

And Pete wondered if Patrick ever got fed up with this: saving Pete. He wondered if this relationship was fair for Patrick: that Pete should always be the one who needed saving, and Patrick should always be the one to be strong for the both of them.

“Don’t go wandering off,” pleaded Patrick, dotting kisses into Pete’s hair, “Please, don’t leave me, Pete.”

“I won’t, Tricky,” Pete whispered back, “I promise.”

“Good.” Patrick pulled away from Pete slightly to look him in the eyes. And even in the dying firelight and moonlight, Pete could see the bright blue eyes of Patrick that he had fallen in love with all those years ago. He smiled through his tears. “Because I need you, too, Pete. Without you, I wouldn’t be here.”

Patrick wiped Pete’s tears from his face, kissed each of his cheeks, and then coaxed him to lay down with him. Their limbs entwined under their blankets, and they held hands in the calamity of reality.

“ _When you wake up, the world will come around_ ,” sang Patrick softly to Pete, “ _It’s just the sweet weather and the peacock feathers, and in the morning it will all be better. It’s not what it seems in the land of dreams; don’t worry your head and go to sleep_.”

“I love you, Patrick.”

“I love you, too, Pete,” said Patrick. “Forever.”

“Promise?”

Patrick leaned in and kissed Pete’s lips goodnight, before softly singing ‘Young Volcanoes’ into Pete’s ear, before falling asleep halfway through. Pete had never thought it more appropriate for his words in someone else’s mouth. Patrick was everything he’d ever wanted and more. He was the one that kept Pete anchored into that tent even as his dead friends coaxed him to the other side.

 

 

VIII.

 

 

There was the sound of waves engulfing him. All he could hear was Gerard screaming at him as he fell from the top of the cliff, all he could hear were the gulls in the distant, and the ocean that swallowed him hole. He felt his lungs fill with water instead of oxygen, and he began to choke, trying desperately to breathe. A pair of arms wrapped themselves around him and began to pull him up.

“Breathe, Frankie, dammit!” Bob’s gruff voice grunted from behind him. “You’re okay, Frank. You’re here, with me. You’re not drowning.”

Frank’s eyes flew open, and he was met with his first coherent vision since he had fallen from the cliff. He couldn’t remember anything; he didn’t know how long he had been out. He couldn’t remember anything that happened. 

“G-Gerard?” Frank demanded, not fighting Bob’s tight grip around him.

“He’s okay, Frank,” said Bob, “He’s sleeping. I promise he is okay.”

Frank nodded, trying to calm himself down. All he could think about was falling down and Gerard and somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he thought about cuts on Gerard’s wrist and wondered if that was real or a dream.

“Frankie, you fucker,” whispered Bob, “Why would you do something like that?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Frank weakly. He was on the verge of crying because Bob’s eyes were red and puffy as though he had been crying; and Bob never cried. “I don’t know, Bob. I don’t want to die.”

“Good,” said Bob firmly, “because you’re not allowed to. I forbid it.”

Frank chuckled. It felt foreign leaving his throat, but it also felt refreshing. “Good to know that even in death you’d kick my ass.”

“Frankie, what even happened?” asked Bob in seriousness.

Frank frowned and tried to remember what had happened, but all he could draw was a blank. All he could properly remember was a voice, the voice of Ray, whispering for him to jump in the ocean and join him. And how could Frank refuse a friend? He relayed this all to Bob, whose face was stoic in the dark night.

“Don’t wander off again,” warned Bob, “Strange shit is happening on this island, and I think it best if we all stuck together.”

“Gerard’s okay?” asked Frank again.

Bob nodded. “He loves you Frank.”

“I love him too, Bobby.”

“Then be with him,” suggested Bob.

“Things aren’t that simple. Jamia… Lyn-Z….”

Bob shook his head and nudged Frank over to the sleeping form of Gerard. “Don’t worry about any of that. Live in the moment, Frank, like you two used to.”

Frank smiled, grateful to have Bob beside him, and laid beside Gerard. He looked pale and sickly in the night, but Frank didn’t care. He wanted Gerard in any way he could have him, so he wrapped an arm around his waist and laid his head on his chest, listening to its gentle beats drumming against his chest.

Bob was right. When had love become complicated?

 

 

IX.

 

 

“Gabe?”

“Mmrpgh…”

“Gabe, wake up.”

Another mumble.

“Gabe, wake up. Please, it’s Bill.”

Gabe’s eyes slowly fluttered open, and he squinted through the darkness to see William’s silhouette overtop him. Upon seeing Gabe awake, William leaned back to sit on his heels, and Gabe struggled to sit up despite his grogginess.

It was a pleasant surprise for William to wake Gabe up, as he hadn’t even crawled into bed beside the older man for several days since he had related to him that he had lied and still had feelings for him. Neither of them had known how to handle it. Bill’s lie had upset the balance of both their lives and made things more complicated than ever before.

“Sorry for waking you up,” whispered William.

“It’s fine, Guillermo,” assured Gabe with a yawn.

William’s heart jumped at the familiar nickname. He tried to fight a smile but couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry I lied to you, too, Gabe,” said William, “I never ever meant to hurt you. I was… I was scared. I’m a coward, and I’m sorry.”

Gabe rolled his eyes and opened his arms up to invite William in. Without hesitation, William allowed himself to be engulfed by Gabe’s grip. “You’re not a coward, William. You’re human; there’s a difference.”

“Doesn’t feel like there is,” mumbled William dejectedly into Gabe’s shirt.

“There is,” said Gabe, “if you were a coward, you would never have told me the truth.”

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know you’d never do that, anyways, Bill.”

“I was just scared, Gabe…. Sc-scared of coming out. And so I got drunk, I got so drunk, and I woke up in bed with Christine. And then she was pregnant. Fuck, Gabe, I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t leave her to have the kid by herself. It was just easier to run away from all that we had, rather than admit I was a shit person.”

“You’re not a shit person, Bilvy, and if you say that again, I’m not going to forgive you.”

“Y-you forgive me?” squeaked Bill in surprise.

“Of course I do,” said Gabe, “I love you, don’t I?”

Bill’s mouth fell open. Sure, Sisky and Vicky had both tried to convince him that Gabe did love him after all these years, but William hadn’t believed them. “I love you, too,” he said quickly. “And I’m sorry for everything.”

“Don’t apologize,” whispered Gabe, leaning close to brush his lips against William’s, “Everything that happened between us led us to this moment. And I wouldn’t change this for anything.”

“Why not?” asked William.

“Because falling in love with you over-and-over again is nothing that could be compared with.” And then Gabe’s lips were on William’s and his hand was cupping his cheek, and William felt like things were finally going to be okay.

…even as he tried to annoy the shrill noises from inside the forest, beckoning him closer.


	9. A Culling Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time to update. My grandmother recently passed and it's been a hard month. Hope you all are still looking forward to reading the story!

I.

 

            He was a ghost in the waxy moonlight.

            Sneaking across the pale sands of the beach, every padded step sounded deafening to his paranoid ears. Above him, the stars twinkled in the inky night and aligned like omens in the sky. But he held his breath and tried to mask the hammering of his heart, as though the sleeping bodies within the tents could hear the organ’s palpitations. But no one did. The fires were crackling to their last lives and the gray smoke masked his presence even more.

            As though on instinct, he entered the forest. The damp soil squished beneath his Toms as he made his way towards a place that had been in his thoughts for longer than he could remember. Some mysterious force was pulling him towards the rocky clearing, even as a saner recess of his mind screamed at him to turn away.

            But Kellin couldn’t walk away. He had been sure of the gun’s existence. Whether Vic thought him crazy didn’t bother him anymore. What did he need Vic for? All Vic and everyone else on the island wanted to do was survive. None of them wanted escape, even though it was all that Kellin longed for. Knowing that escape from the island was futile, Kellin couldn’t help thinking of the only escape possible for him. All his ponderings had led him to the final conclusion: the final escape.

            This would be a permanent escape. And Kellin liked that: the idea of permanence. He liked being in control of his fate, and this island was too chaotic to allow him that control.

            He could remember a night that felt like an infinity ago. It had been another night of Kellin worrying and fretting about the future- another aspect of his life he had no control over. One thing led to another and he could remember the feeling of the gun against his temple. For a few seconds, everything had felt like bliss.

            His heart had been hammering, and his breathing was hitched by shaky sobs. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He was afraid for the aftermath of his death. He was worried for Vic and his fragile heart.

            He could remember Vic’s voice. “ _I’m here. I’m always here._ ”

            But that wasn’t true because Vic wasn’t here, trying to stop him and taking the gun. Vic was far away, dreaming of an escape that would never come. Dreaming of a survival that was fucking depressing.

            Pushing away the rock from his secret, Kellin began to dig through the soil. Finally, unlike the time with Vic, he felt his knuckles brush against a cool metal. His heart skipped a beat as he resurrected the gun and felt the coolness of death in his hands. Of escape. Of permanence.

            Surveying the instrument for several more minutes, breath held, Kellin tried not to think about the aftermath or Vic. Kellin couldn’t live solely for Vic Fuentes anymore. He was fucking miserable, and he knew there was the support system of his former band mates in the afterlife. They would understand. They would support him.

            In the dead of the night, Kellin heard the snapping of a twig and soft footsteps padding towards him. He couldn’t breathe. He felt trapped. He cocked the gun back and wheeled around, hand twitching in anticipation. No one could see him like this.

            “Kell-?” But Vic Fuente’s voice was drowned out by the sharp bang of the bullet escaping from the barrel of the gun. It took only a second, but Kellin seemed to watch it happen in slow motion as the bullet hit Vic and he fell to the ground with a thump.

            Blood began to pour from the other boy’s body. It seemed to bubble up from all the pores on his skin until he was coated in a fine cloak of red.

            Kellin rushed over, sobbing and screaming apologies that Vic would never hear again. He screamed and screamed and….

            “Kel? Kel, wake up!”

            A hand was violently shaking his body, and Kellin bolted awake, covered in sweat and tears fresh on his face. Hovering above him was Vic with a worried look on his face. Around them, the night was still brewing, but even the sounds of the ocean didn’t sound as real as they had in his nightmare.

            “Kel, are you alright?” whispered Vic, eyes wide.

            “I--you’re alive,” Kellin breathed, eyes welling with joyful tears, and he quickly threw his arms around Vic’s neck and held him close, breathing in every scent that was uniquely Vic. This was real, Kellin told himself.

            “Of course I’m alive,” Vic muttered, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

            Kellin shrugged.

            Vic bit his lip. “You alright?”

            Again, Kellin shrugged.

            “What happened?”

            “Nightmare,” Kellin mumbled, feeling his cheeks pink from embarrassment.

            “I died in it, then?”

            He nodded.

            Wordlessly, Vic engulfed Kellin into a tighter hug than the other boy had bestowed upon him. He didn’t cry or say soft, comforting words. Vic held him long into the dawn, offering Kellin the only permanence that had ever meant anything to him.

 

II. 

            “What could they mean?”

            “Fuck if I know,” growled Alan. “I’m not Google Translate.”

            On the island, four of them sat in a circle around the campfire that they had relit. Scraps of fruit from their breakfast had helped provide kindling. Around them, the sun had risen and was beating down mercilessly. The cooling rains from earlier had only made the humidity unbearable, and all of them had stripped down to their shorts and sunglasses. On the pasty bodies of Alan Ashby and Patrick Stump, there was the crimson glow of sunburn beginning to paint their skin, and that was only one more thing to piss Alan Ashby off that morning.

            Austin glanced sideways at Alan before grabbing his hand supportively. He squeezed it, hoping to mask his own grief as well. It was futile, and he saw Alan’s eyes glaze over with tears that had been coming back intermittently since the two awoke at dawn to discuss with Pete and Patrick the possible meaning of the symbols on Tino’s corpse. Instead of succumbing to the sadness, though, Alan sniffled and wiped the tears away with his free hand.

            Austin was so used to Alan picking up the pieces of his own fragile self, he had forgotten that Alan had his breaking point to. In fact, racking his brain, Austin couldn’t remember the last time Alan had smiled at him since they wrecked. Smiled at him and truly meant it. He squeezed his best friend’s hand tighter, wishing he could whisk him off this island and save what little piece of mind either of them had left.

            “Arguing isn’t going to solve anything,” Patrick said softly. Pete nodded in agreement, but he looked equally grumpy and tired. His eyes were ringed with the lack of sleep, and he had tipped his head into Patrick’s lap, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Could it be a local tribe, perhaps?”

            “But why kill one of us?”

            “Because we’re in their territory.”

            “Then why write cryptic messages on bodies we may or may not find?” Alan tugged at the tips of his hair in frustration, and Austin hurriedly batted his hand away from his ginger locks.

            “Don’t,” he muttered to his friend, “you’ll regret it when you go bald.”

            The corner of Alan’s lips twitched, and he let his hand fall to the ground, instead busying himself with sifting sand between his fingers. Austin watched.

            “Maybe I have a doppelganger on the island,” Pete mumbled sleepily, “Cryptic messages written on corpses. That’s a whole new plane of existence for the emo genre.”

            “Yes,” said Patrick impatiently, “but the runes weren’t written in eyeliner, Pete, nor were they another whiny poem.”

            “You like my whiny poems,” he countered.

            “Yes… until I realized the whole internet thinks I sing about cornflakes and stuff!”

            “That’s not my fault you garble your words.”

            “Sure it is. The lyrics were so gay, the words just wouldn’t come out straight.”

            Pete broke out into a fit of laughter.

            Meanwhile, Alan wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Sorry to interrupt, but your flirting is disgusting.”

            Pete shrugged and continued looking at Patrick Stump as though he’d hung the moon. Out of the corner of his eye, Austin caught Alan staring at him intently; when he went to lock eyes with him, Alan quickly found the sand sifting through his fingers thoroughly interesting.

            “If someone could get a signal, we could look up the damned runes,” Austin said.

            “No point trying to read something that clearly is telling us to get out,” Alan said, “No one would go through this much effort just to communicate with someone. This is a warning. We have to get off this island. Soon.”

            Patrick nodded in agreement. “But how?”

            Alan shrugged. “Dunno. Never saw the season finale of _Lost_.”

            “Don’t,” said Pete, “it sucked.”

            Austin rolled his eyes in annoyance. “I really don’t think J.J. Abrams’ cinematic masterpieces are going to be of any use in this situation.”

            “You never know that.”

            Patrick interrupted. He seemed to be the only one to ever get Pete Wentz to shut up…and even that was a rare occurrence. “We just need to make another SOS. Make it bigger. That seems to be our only chance of rescue.”

            The three of them nodded, a mutual understanding bubbling up from the discovery that they were not alone. Not only that, but they were not wanted. They were sheep up for slaughter, and they had walked right into the wolf’s den.

 

III.

 

            He woke up exactly where he had always yearned to be. Under the shade of the tent, Alex felt content waking up tangled in Jack’s arms- even if Jack was the most unbearable person to sleep with. Not only did he snore and toss himself around until he was twisted up in all the blankets, but he almost always ended up laying on top of Alex like he were a cat or a lap dog. Today, though, Alex didn’t mind. In fact, when he woke up, a small smile spread across his lips, and he found himself carding a hair through the scraggly, over-grown locks that were Jack Barakat’s hair.

            Jack was a heavy sleeper, though. He always had been. Usually Alex was always sent onto the tour bus or into the hotels to wake him up for different variety of reasons. Alex was the only one Jack would wake up for. Sure, he still got a pillow or a limb thrown at him, but it was better than Rian and Zack whose crotches had been kicked so many times by Jack that it would be impossible for them to have any potent sperm left inside them. Alex, however, made it through Jack’s friendship with all his baby-making equipment intact.

            This morning, though, Alex didn’t want to wake Jack. He didn’t care that he had stolen the only blanket or was drooling on Alex’s chest. All Alex wanted was to extend this single moment into forever.

            But a moment of perfection can only last so long before reality resumes.

            And Tay Jardine walking into the tent and asking to speak with Alex in a quiet squeak of a voice was the epitome of reality calling. With some difficulty, Alex detangled himself from Jack, wiped the drool from his chest, and threw on the same shorts (with the American flag) that he had been wearing for two days. By far, they were the cleanest of his clothes.

            Tay led him away from the tent and over to the ocean, which seemed to be a popular place for all manners of conversation.

            “I’m sorry, Tay,” Alex said before Tay could even open her mouth. She refused to look him in the eyes.

            “Alex.” She bit her lip. “I can’t forgive you.”

            He frowned. He hadn’t been expecting that. In his mind, they were going to make up and skip into parenthood together. He was sure she would allow Jack to be the godfather, and split custody would’ve suited Alex just fine. “What?”

            She laughed bitterly. “You think I can forgive you for _using_ me as a scapegoat to hide your feelings for Jack? I’m not stupid, Alex. I knew going into the relationship that there was always feelings between you and Jack. I knew you two had a weird attachment- I mean, how could I not with all that ’Jalex’ bullshit I saw every time I went online. But I figured you wouldn’t lie to me- I mean I only asked you how many times whether you had feelings for Jack. And now that I’m pregnant, you decide you’ve fucking sorted out your feelings for Jack!”

            Alex blinked in surprise, utterly startled by the anger in her voice. “Tay, I never meant for you to get hurt.”

            “But I did, Alex. What you did to me wasn’t fair. You stringed me along. You fucking _proposed_ to me. Then the next day, you drop me. What the fuck? Did I mean anything to you?”

            “Of course you did, Tay!” Alex tried to grab her hands, but she backed away from his touch. “You meant the world to me, Tay. It’s just… well, Jack _is_ my world.”

            “So what am I supposed to do?” she sniffled, tears starting to trail down her cheeks. She wiped at them furiously. “Go home and be a single parent while you two frolic into the sunset?”

            “No. Tay, I want to be there for the baby. I’m a jerk, but I’m not a shitty person. I want to help you and raise the kid. Maybe it’ll be a little unconventional, but that kid is my responsibility, too, and I will be there for you. You’ll be the mother of my child, Tay, I’ll always love you and respect you in that way.”

            “Alex, I still can’t forgive you. You hurt me.”

            “You don’t have to forgive me,” Alex said, “Just, please, trust that I am sorry for all of this, Tay. Know that I never meant for you to get hurt.”

            She nodded. She backed away from his embrace, but she nodded in understanding. She understood; for now, for Alex, that had to be enough.

 

IV.

 

            The afternoon’s weather felt as though the island had been sitting in a baking oven all morning. The air was sticky from the storms, and the sun’s added heat made everyone sweaty and lazy. Most of the inhabitants had escaped into the refreshing waters of the Pacific Oceans; others refused to leave the shade of the tents. No one entered the forest, and those that walked in for fruits and nuts did so in five minute intervals, sprinting there and back the whole way. It was decided that fish would be the only option on the menu for dinner that night. No one felt safe.

            Another decision made was for another SOS to be made of stones. Pete Wentz had decided that placing the SOS on the cliff overlooking the ocean might prove helpful for any planes or helicopters that happened to fly over the island (so far, there was none to set an optimistic precedent).

            The third decision of the island was delivered by Matt Barnes to Max Helyer and involved the most important aspect of survival: saving your heart.

            “What’s it to you, Matt?!” shouted Max angrily.

            “What’s it to me?” Matt echoed back hollowly, “What’s it to me?! Max, I have bloody listened to things no man on this fucking planet should have to listen to. I have listened to you pine and whine about Josh Franceschi. Because of you, I know exactly what shade of brown his eyes are and what his hair smells like, even when he has to buy the cheaper shampoo, and I can list every part of his  body that has a fucking freckle on it. It’s everything to me, Max, because you’re my friend and I’m involved now.”

            Max couldn’t even come up with a catty comeback.

            “What happened in the forest?”

            Max stared down at his shoes and blushed. “We… er… snogged against a tree.”

            Matt rolled his eyes. “What are you, sixteen years old, Max?”

            “Fuck off!”

            “You need to be careful about diving straight into this, Max. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

            “Can’t get anymore hurt than I already am.”

            “That’s not true. It always hurts worse to love and lost than to never love at all.”

            “How would you know?” seethed Max.

            “Because life isn’t about you!” shouted Matt, as though something snapped inside him. “Because I have a beautiful girlfriend at home who I fucking miss like hell and will probably never get to see again. Because I had to bury my two best friends, all the while sitting around and watching this island have their dramas. There is more going on than your fucking unrequited love story, Max.”

            Max watched the tears fall from Matt’s eyes, but he quickly wiped them and turned away from his friend. Before Max could say anything remotely consoling, Matt had stormed off back to the tent to sulk with Josh, who hadn’t spoken to anyone since Max had returned from the forest.

            Suddenly, Max felt alone. He felt like he had broken Matt and disappointed his best friend. He did nothing but remind Josh that it had been Dan who had died instead of him. His continued existence on this island was nothing but a burden.

            Max had been so caught up in this crush he’d had on Josh since they had been sixteen and sitting in Josh’s basement sharing a joint, he had forgotten that life was not a drama or a love story or a fairytale. Their life was one of survival, and he seemed to have forgotten how very much real an impending tragedy was for all of them if they didn’t get off this island soon.

            Matt was right. He had always been right. Max should never have offered Josh his heart so easily; he should have saved it for someone who deserved it (not someone who saw a ghost every time he kissed him). But Max had been selfish. He had been so selfish. He had been selfish enough to remain alive and let Dan perish in that wreck.

            “Anyone want to help me put up the SOS?” Jack Barakat shouted across the island, looking as though he’d just crawled out of bed.

            When no one answered, Max’s eyes suddenly lit up. This would speed up their escape. They could be off this island, and Max could return home to find someone else to give his heart to. Someone who wasn’t Josh Franceschi.

            “I’ll help!” Max called back, jogging over to Jack. “I’ll help. Where are we going?”

            “Into the woods,” Jack said loftily, “There’s a path that’ll lead up the cliff, someone said. It’s not too deep in. We should be fine.”

            Max nodded. He was sick of being selfish, anyways. Who cared if he died? It would save both Matt and Josh a lot of grief, anyways.

            So he followed Jack into the forest, not even bothering to let anyone know he had left. No one would care anyways.

 

V.

 

            Because of Spencer’s ankle, he had trouble walking and standing. Therefore, that morning, Jon helped his friend limp over to the ocean to wash himself. Spencer was stripped down to his boxers and was carrying what was left of the travel-sized shampoo they’d been doled out. He clung to Jon in pain, as his ankle had been flaring up worse than ever since the acid trip. Still, he refused to take painkillers. He wouldn’t cave, especially now that he had Jon back.

            “How are you feeling?”

            “Fine,” Spencer lied, “A bit sore.”

            “I hope you learned your lesson about drugs,” teased Jon.

            Spencer laughed and rolled his eyes. “Says the hippie who actually got his hands on acid. What the fuck, Jon? This isn’t Woodstock.”

            “If I had a time machine, that’s where I’d take you, babe.”

            Spencer’s heart burned with a familiar longing ache. He clutched Jon tighter. “If I had a time machine, I’d take us back and stop this tour.”

            “I wouldn’t.”

            “Why?”

            “Because this tour brought me to you. Putting the shitty situations aside, I wouldn’t change any moment I’ve spent with you.”

            Spencer opened his mouth to retort. He wanted to ask about Cassie, he wanted to ask about all the years they’d been apart, and he wanted to ask what they would do when they were off the island. Would they pretend this never happened and return to normal or would they hold true to their words and promises? However, they had reached the water, and the icy chill of the Pacific Ocean was both welcoming and uncomfortable as Jon helped Spencer wade into the waist-high water.

            “Just hold onto me, yeah?” Jon helped dunk Spencer’s head into the water to dampen his hair. Spencer kept his hands tight around Jon’s neck and allowed Jon to wash his hair. It was hard enough to keep balanced with the waves whipping around, let alone even attempting to wash his hair as well.

            Jon’s fingers expertly massaged Spencer’s scalp, and Spencer tried to ignore the feeling of self-consciousness that began to seep through his body. He hadn’t even thought of his appearance; he must look like hell. He could feel his hair was as long as it was when he was younger, and he knew his beard was getting thicker. He hadn’t brought a razor with him, forgetful as he was, and always kept forgetting to ask to borrow Ryan’s. Ryan was the only member of their group who was anal about keeping himself clean shaven.

            “You look fine, Spence,” Jon said distractedly, as he dipped Spencer’s head back into the water to rinse out the shampoo.

            “I feel like shit.”

            “That’s because you’re all bang--” Jon’s sentence was cut short as a gasp fell from his lips.

            Spencer stared at him in confusion until he looked down at his body. Along his chest and up his ribs were inked-on runes that were slowly fading away with help from the lapping saltwater. He couldn’t remember ever seeing that on his body before. And he knew these weren’t the scribbles of a friend messing around with another friend: these were precise and intricate. These were planned.

            “Fuck,” Jon muttered. He tightened an arm around Spencer’s waist and hurriedly waded them out of the ocean. Spencer tried his best to keep up with Jon’s pace, but eventually it felt like Jon was dragging him across the beach towards the Fall Out Boy tent.

            “Pete!” Jon called desperately.

            Pete Wentz poked his dark head out of the tent, yawning. “Yeah?”

            “Pete, look at these.” Jon practically thrust Spencer at Pete, who surveyed the foreign alphabet on Spencer’s skin. He frowned.

            “Fuck.”

            “What?”

            “We sent Jack and Max out there.”

            “What?!”

            “I fucking made a mistake. Jon, there is someone who doesn’t want us on this island. This is a warning.”

 

VI.

 

            A meeting had been called. Actually, the Cobra Clan preferred it to be called an intervention. Simply put, the three of them (plus Sisky and Butcher) had finally gotten fed up with the actions of Gabe Saporta and William Beckett. No longer were they in the mood for watching the two of them skirt around their feelings and pretend they could continue to coexist as friends. Nothing was more painful than watching two people in love not being with each other. In fact, it was downright sickening.

            “Their flirting is making me want to vomit,” Vicky told the boys as they waited for Gabe and William to come back from swimming (which actually just consisted of them splashing each other and Gabe letting William climb on his shoulders. It was gross). “It’s like watching a terrible chick flick.”

            “One without nudity,” added Ryland.

            Vicky elbowed him in the ribs. “I don’t want to see either of them naked. God, they could be fucking and they would still deny they have feelings for each other.”

            Sisky made a gagging noise. “Why would you paint that picture for me?!”

            “They’re not the ugliest guys in the word,” Butcher put in thoughtfully. However, he was met with only shocked looks of his friends, and he quickly shut up.

            “At night, they whisper _cute_ things to each other.” Sisky pretended to gag. “And they cuddle.”

            “We cuddle,” Butcher pointed out in a whisper.

            “Yes, but we are in a mutual understanding of our relationship. We have nothing to deny.”

            Silence fell around the Cobra tent. They heard sickening giggles approaching, and the five of them perked up. It was time to sort this mess of heartbreak and pining out. Gabe and William walked in and froze, staring in confusion at their band mates.

            “What’s going on?” William asked.

            “An intervention.”

            “Why?” asked Gabe. “Is this a formal way of proposing an orgy because I won’t say no.”

            William thwacked him on the chest and Gabe pouted an apology until William giggled and kissed his cheek. Vicky made a retching noise.

            “Because of that!” She pointed. “Because you two make us all _sick_.”

            Gabe frowned. “Excuse us?”

            “Your relationship is gross,” Sisky added.

            “We’re not in a relationship,” explained William.

            Vicky snorted.

            “We’re not!”

            “Could’ve fooled us.”

            And then a raspy voice spoke up, making the entire tent fall into a stunned silence. It was Nate. Nate hadn’t really spoken anything more than a few words here and there since the wreck. In fact, he had been exhibiting very un-Natelike behavior. No one had questioned it because no one ever questioned Nate. He had his strange quirks and behaviors just like everyone else. They all had their own ways of coping.

            “You guys need to just fucking tell the truth. No more of this skirting around your feelings. Because if something happened to one of you, you two are both going to regret it. Because losing someone who doesn’t know how you feeling fucking sucks, okay?” Immediately, as if someone flicked a switch, Nate’s voice choked up with unshed tears and bottled-up grief. “B-because I fucking didn’t tell him in time, and now he’s gone. He’s gone, and he never fucking knew how I felt about him!”

            “Wha--?”

            “Alex!” howled Nate, burying his face in his hands. “I fucking loved him, and I never told him! Alex was my fucking everything, and now he is gone!”

            The tent all exchanged glances.

            “Nate,” Vicky murmured and placed a hand on Nate’s knee, giving it a fond squeeze. “I’m sure he knew, and I’m sure he loved you too.”

            “But I’ll never know for sure.”

            “You will. You guys will see each other again, one day.”

            Gabe nodded. “And you two can make horrible CobraCam cooking shows again.”

            Nate choked out a laugh through his tears. “It hurts.”

            “It only gets better.”

            He looked up at Gabe and caught his friend’s eye. “Don’t make the same mistake, Gabe.”

            Gabe nodded. Then, without warning, he grabbed William and dipped him down, pressing a firm and passionate kiss to his mouth that William reciprocated with immediately and eagerly. He wrapped his arms around Gabe’s neck and reveled at how natural this felt and how much he’d fucking missed this. Sure, William had slowly been testing the boundaries of their friendship by crawling into bed with him and giving him pecks on the cheek. But testing the waters could go on forever, and diving right in was the only definite thing in life.

            “I love you,” William said against Gabe’s lips.

            Gabe swallowed the words and echoed them back.

 

VII.

 

            When Gerard came to consciousness, he felt as though he had just been hit by a semi-truck… or thrown against jagged rocks by angry waves. In fact, the second one sounded more like it. He could remember everything clearly, but all he wanted to do was forget: Frank’s body falling from the cliff, the icy cold of the water when he dived in, the way it felt when he had been so sure that Frank had died.

            Immediately, he sat up at full force remembering Frank.

            “Frank?!” gasped Gerard.

            A chuckle. “Calm down, Gee. I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

            Gerard blinked and squinted. Thankfully, the sun’s light was muted by passing clouds and Gerard could properly see Frank sitting beside him, holding a glass of water and handing it to Gerard who gulped it down ravenously, throat dry.

            “How long have I been out?” groaned Gerard.

            “On-and-off for a couple days.” Frank shrugged. “I didn’t keep count.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Not your fault.”

            “No, I’m sorry about other things.” Gerard bit his lip. “I’m sorry about the note.”

            Frank’s eyes welled with tears. “H-how did you know?”

            “Bob told me. Wanted to give me a heads-up. Said you were upset. I’m really fucking sorry, Frankie. I just-- I thought you hated me.”

            “Gee, I could never hate you.”

            “I’m so sorry I hurt you, Frank. I’m sorry I fucked you over. I’m sorry I told you I loved you and then left you.”

            Frank grabbed Gerard’s hand and squeezed it before bringing it to his lips and kissing each knuckle. “I forgive you for everything, Gee. I fucking love you.”

            Gerard squeezed Frank’s hand back just as tight, afraid to let go and be separated by the waves again. Finally, he let his barriers fall. He didn’t want to smoke away his problems or ignore them or run to women with wonderful legs and dark hair and sharp eyes. He only wanted Frank. So Gerard fell into Frank and buried his face in his chest, crying. Frank wrapped his arms around his friend and kissed the top of his head, burying his face into his hair and breathing in the sharp scent of sea salt and _Gerard._

            “Don’t ever kill yourself, Gee,” Frank pleaded. “I’d miss you. Don’t ever go somewhere without me.”

            “I won’t,” Gerard promised, holding onto Frank tightly, and wondering whether those words would ring truer than the others ones he’d promised Frank in the past.

 

VIII.

 

            The trek up the mountain had been exhausting. In fact, Jack Barakat was pretty sure that this was what cardiac arrest felt like because he felt ready to keel over and choke up his lungs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had exerted so much energy; they hadn’t played any shows in weeks, so he hadn’t been running around and jumping off of amplifiers and dodging bras thrown by underage girls. And still, he missed it all. He missed the euphoria and adrenaline he got when the lights when down, the crowd silenced, and the music began. He missed plucking chords and singing back-up, bantering with Alex and slyly flirting with him, as well as watching fans scream and cry and say ‘You saved my life’.

            Jack had never yearned for anything more (other than Alex Gaskarth), but now that he had him, all he wanted was his second love in life: music. Touring the world had never been about money; it had been about hanging with his friends and playing music and trying to mean something to at least one person. Jack wondered if anyone in the world even missed All Time Low, or if they had been replaced by another band that could mean something.

            Then he remembered Zack and wondered how they were ever going to play music again. They couldn’t just replace Zack. He had been more than a bassist: he had been their best friend. Vaguely, Jack wondered how often Alex thought about this. He had seen Alex scribbling song lyrics desperately on paper, as though it pained him to transfer his emotions from his thoughts to something tangible- to something real.

            Alex’s emotions had always guided his friend. He followed his heart more than his mind sometimes, but more often than not he kept those thoughts hidden (a secret between himself, the pen, and the paper). Jack missed playing Alex’s words and watching his face light up on the stage.

            Just last night, tangled up in each other, Alex had listed every song he had ever wrote about Jack: A Daydream Away, If These Sheets Were States, Vegas…. There were so much more, but Jack had a feeling that listing them all would contain their entire discography. Alex had been as much a lovesick puppy as Jack had, and that was saying something.

            “Are you okay?” Max asked.

            Jack looked over at him and smiled. “I’m getting there.”

            “I’m not,” he muttered glumly. “This island fucking sucks.”

            Jack nodded. “Sucks harder than your mom.”

            “Do Americans still make those jokes?” Max asked in amazement.

            “Nah. Just me.”

            “Oh.”

            “Whatever, Helyer, I’m fucking hilarious.”

            “Is that why you sell music and not jokes?”

            “You don’t sell jokes.”

            “Then how the fuck does Aziz Ansari make money?”

            “…fair enough.”

            Soon enough, Jack and Max had fallen into a conversation about their favorite comedians, favorite comedy specials, and began repeating the jokes and stories that were their favorite. The conversation followed them up to the cliff where they happily exited the forest and began to set to work rearranging rocks and sticks they could find to create a larger SOS. It was a wonderful escape from reality, being on that cliff.

            Their laughter masked the sound of rustles from the forest. Of twigs snapping and footsteps pressing into the ground. Stepping on leaves and pushing away branches.

            Jack and Max were laughing when they were ambushed.

 

IX.

 

            He tried to ignore the voices, but Pete Wentz couldn’t sleep. He sat at the mouth of the tent, staring into the distance and hoping to see Jack and Max returning. Night had finally fallen and no one had seen or heard from either of them. He was worried. Pete had basically sent them to their deaths. Soon enough, someone would find their bodies in the forest, scribbled on in strange writing and hieroglyphics, just like Tino.

            Patrick had woken up once or twice to plead with Pete to come back to bed, but Pete couldn’t silence his mind long enough to attempt to fall asleep.

            All he could hear was a culling to come to the forest. To succumb to the island. He had tried to fight it for Patrick. He had tried so hard, but the thought that he had sent two of his friends to die was too much. He was a murderer.

            He deserved whatever the island had in store for him.

            So Pete Wentz stood up and allowed himself to be lulled to the forest in the middle of the night, and the voice kept singing to him.


	10. Of Flesh and Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the hiatus in my writing. Inspiration is a fickle thing. I hope this makes up for it all.

I. 

     

       The next morning was like something straight out of a nightmare. The islands’ inhabitants were awoken by a strangling sob from one of the tents. It was a pitiful sob, too: all hiccups and squeaks between the cracks in his voice. It was messy, and it was Patrick Stump. Immediately, Brendon Urie- another early riser- ran into the tent to calm his friend down, but Patrick was inconsolable. His sobs made his voice incoherent, and Brendon had to force Patrick into a game of charades to figure out what the fuck he was going on about. However, he quickly wished he hadn’t deciphered Patrick’s grief.

            It had read: _Pete Wentz was gone and missing._

“Gone?” Brendon gaped. “N-no, Pete wouldn’t be that stupid. He’d never leave you, Patrick.”

            “He told me,” hiccupped Patrick, “he told me he heard things. He saw things. He saw Joe and Andy. He told me, and I fucking fell asleep on him.”

            “You can’t _not_ sleep, Patrick,” Brendon said in dismay.

            “It’s my fault,” he cried, “It’s all my fault. Pete’s gone.”

            “Have you tried searching for him?”

            “N-no. After the final SOS was put up, he wanted everyone to remain at camp.”

            “The final SOS?”

            “Y-yeah.”

            “Why’d he want everyone at the camp?”

            “B-because,” Patrick sniffed. He wiped his nose on his sleeve unabashedly. Sadness wasn’t pretty, after all. “W-we think there’s someone else on the island with us. S-someone who murdered Tino as a warning.”

            Brendon’s eyes widened. His mind was racing, and he couldn’t catch up with his thoughts fast enough to draw the conclusion he wanted. All he saw in his head was just a series of flashbacks from the island: the initial crash, ordering Ryan to survive this island, words from the songs he had written whilst stranded, the missing page from his notebook and the missing objects, the feeling of being watched during every conversation of his, Spencer’s hallucinations, the affinity with death that the members of the island had slowly been acquainted with….

            “We’re not alone,” he repeated softly.

            Patrick shook his head, still trembling. “We need to get off this island.”

            Brendon’s mind tried to pace itself. “W-wait, you mentioned an SOS? What SOS?”

            “A new one. W-we decided we needed another one. Pete seemed to think it imperative we get off this island soon.”

            “Who went to put it up and where?”

            But Brendon needn’t wait for an answer. The next second Alex Gaskarth had stormed into the tent: his eyes had prominent shadows beneath them from lack of sleep, his hair looked as though it hadn’t been washed in days, and he was out of breath as though he had rushed over to the tent, as well. “J-jack,” he panted, “where’s Jack?”

            And Brendon knew he had his answer as to who had went.

            “How could you let him go alone?!” Alex demanded of Patrick.

            “I d-didn’t!” wailed Patrick. “I’m so s-sorry. I fucked up. I fucked up. I’m sorry, Pete.”

            Brendon hushed Patrick and shuffled Alex from the tent. Trying to keep his voice calm as to not incite panic, he asked if Alex could manage to heat some water for Patrick; he knew they had teabags somewhere on the island. Pete Wentz was gone. He had been their leader, and he had stolen a piece of Patrick with him. Someone had to take his place. Brendon felt obligated, as Patrick was his friend.

            “What are we going to do about Jack?” Alex demanded. His hands were shaking as he managed to heat up the water with their makeshift shelf above the fire and metal water bottles salvaged from a few suitcases of those who had packed them.

            Brendon shrugged. “Send out a search party for him, I suppose.”

            “Will that work?”

            “It has to.”

            “But we can’t afford to keep losing people in the woods.”

            “We don’t have any other choice,” Brendon said, “and we have to be quick about it.”

            “…why?”

            “There might be someone else on this island with us,” murmured Brendon. “Someone Tino crossed paths with before we found him.”

            “…fuck.” The tears began to fall down Alex’s face, but he quickly wiped them up with the sleeve of a crewneck he was sporting. He had needed something to warm him up in the night without Jack, and Jack’s crewneck had been the closest he had to the real thing.

            “We’ll send a few people out. We’ll have them mark the trees or something, so we can make sure everyone makes it back fine.”

            Alex nodded. His lip was trembling. Brendon couldn’t even imagine what Patrick was going through. If Ryan disappeared on Brendon… he didn’t think he could bear losing him for a second time in his life.

            “What the fuck?!” another angry voice roared from the other side of the beach.

            Brendon and Alex both looked up to see Josh Franceschi sauntering towards them. “Where the fuck did Max go?”    

            Brendon groaned. He knew immediately where Max had gone: with Jack to help with the SOS. With a pleading look in his eyes, he signaled for Alex to catch Josh up on what their strategy was in dealing with these disappearances. Alex nodded in understanding, and Brendon delivered the hot tea to Patrick.

            Patrick’s nose was still red from snot, and his face was puffed up from frantically wiping the tears away.

            Brendon crouched down beside his friend and threw a comforting arm around him. “We’ll find Pete, Patrick. We’ll find him. Everything will be okay.”

            “I should’ve been there for him.”

            “You’re not superman, Patrick.”

            “I sh-should’ve saved him, anyways,” howled Patrick.

            “Patrick, you’ve always saved him.”

            Trembling and shaking, Patrick managed to sip his tea, comforted slightly by Brendon’s optimistic presence in the tent. Brendon had always had that aura about him of making people see the sun in the rain, which was why it had always clicked between him and Ryan. Originally, he had only been confidence for those melancholic lyrics that poured from Ryan’s pen, but as they grew closer, Brendon soon realized that he had become the entire spectrum of weather in Ryan’s life, not just the sunshine.

            Soon, though, the rain just wouldn’t stop falling between them. Storms rolled over their relationship in the form of arguments: Ryan only wanted secrecy and sloppy trysts in-between the publicity with his ‘girlfriend.’ Brendon had only wanted forever.

            But neither weather nor relationships were like that.

 

II.

 

            After making sure Patrick was calm and soothed, while the island slowly congregated into who would attend the search party and how it would be carried out, Brendon meandered back to his own tent to collapse onto the pile of blankets and pillows that the boys had hoarded for themselves. He tried to organize his thoughts, but without pen and paper it was damned near impossible. He though of searching for his notebook to write a song, but it felt petty of Brendon to try to pen lyrics during the distressing events of the morning. Besides, what more did he have left to say on the matters of his heart that hadn’t already been written.

            Even Ryan had spent so much of his career looking for the right words to place on the disastrous hurricane they had been.

            But Ryan had been the most beautiful storm to enter Brendon’s life. Somewhere in the midst of the rolling typhoon that was them, there had been a silver lining. Their waves had pushed and pulled until they crashed into each other, and the impact made Brendon fully understand why they named storms after people. Things that had such an impact could not go unnamed; that much was fact. And Brendon could never forget the impact that Ryan had left in his life.

            Ryan was beautiful. He always had been. Thin and lanky, awkward in his movements, Brendon could not help but love the kinesiology of Ryan Ross. He watched every night on stage as Ryan’s introverted personality came alight with the music in its graceful, yet awkward, essence. Brendon had memorized the color Ryan’s eyes had been under the light of the stages and his own adrenaline.

            “How’s Patrick?” a soft voice interrupted Brendon’s complex web of thoughts.

            Brendon looked up. Ryan was standing at the entrance of the tent. He was wearing a pair of his skinny jeans that he had ripped into makeshift shorts, one of his stupid floral print button-ups (that Brendon had both hated and loved with a passion) that had the sleeves ripped off, and an extra pair of Jon’s sandals that the other had not needed.

            Brendon shrugged. “Heartbroken, I imagine.”

            “He’ll find Pete again,” Ryan said, “They always do.”

            Brendon wasn’t sure what Ryan meant by that, but he chose not to question it. Ryan had always been enigmatic, and that was what had originally drawn Brendon to Ryan.

            “Besides,” Ryan added before shuffling towards Brendon to sit beside him, “hearts fix themselves after time.”

            Brendon looked up to catch Ryan’s gaze. “Do they?” he murmured.

            “…they try,” Ryan amended, “They survive. That’s all they can do sometimes.”

            “Ryan, I’m fucking scared.”

            “Good. So am I.”

            And Brendon couldn’t hear anything else that Ryan was saying. All he could hear was the pitter-pattering of rain from another life time. The crashing typhoon of waves that had brought them to each other. So Brendon swam straight to the eye of the storm and cupped the back of Ryan’s neck before fitting their lips together sloppily. Ryan made a noise into his mouth, but Brendon swallowed it with relish.

            Ryan tasted purely of sea salt, and Brendon had never thought anything was more of a fitting choice for Ryan in his entire life. He gripped Ryan tightly, hoping to leave marks on his neck, but also to keep himself anchored. He wanted to be absolutely sure this was Ryan and not another hurricane in his life. And Ryan kissed back eagerly. He gripped the collar of Brendon’s shirt, pulling him closer and fitting his body against Brendon’s as though their bodies had never ceased intertwining.

            Brendon groaned into Ryan’s mouth. Hundreds upon thousands of words entered his mind to describe this moment to write into a song, but Brendon shut all those words away. He didn’t want any of them.

            The only word he wanted for this moment was _indescribable._

 

III.

 

            It had only been an hour since the initial discovery of their missing friends, but the island was abuzz with urgency to recover what they had lost. Alex, Josh, and Patrick had readily volunteered, but they felt as though the needed someone else. Alan Ashby decided he might as well be that someone else; after all, he hated the idea of sitting around and waiting for danger to find them. He did not want to see anyone else receive the same fate as Tino.

            “I’m going to help,” he told Austin casually, as they sat side-by-side sharing a mango for breakfast.

            “You mean, join the search party?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Oh. Okay.”

            “It’s what Tino would want,” Alan said.

            Austin raised an interested brow at his friend. “Oh? How would you know what Tino wants? He’s dead.”

            “I know he’s dead, Aus!” Alan snapped. “Give me a break, I’m trying to find some source of fucking closure here.”

            “…sorry.”

            And Alan, right there, so desperately wanted to tell Austin to beg him not to go. Alan wanted Austin to give him a reason to stay. But all Austin did was chew his mango thoughtfully. Obviously thinking of Tino, that Alan knew, Austin would never be thinking of Alan anyways.

            “Do you think we’ll make it off this island in one piece?” Alan asked.

            “Not a fucking chance.”

            “Well, you’re pleasant, aren’t you?”

            “A realist,” Austin corrected.

            “You used to be a dreamer.”

            “Dreams die.”

            Alan wanted to scream in Austin’s face. He wanted to scream and beg that Austin return to normal. This wasn’t Austin Carlile. Austin Carlile was the gentle giant: he was sweet and caring, comforting, soft and tender in all his movements as though he could bust someone even though he couldn’t hurt a fucking fly. Alan could vividly recall the time Austin had called him, from jail, asking for bail. Something inside the other man had just snapped, and he’d found himself fighting for one of their fans. And Alan had never been more amazed and disappointed at the same time. Austin had never been a violent person, or an angry person, but he had allowed himself to showcase raw emotions on behalf of a fan of theirs. It was valiant, but Austin had never allowed himself to do that for Alan’s sake.

            “Do you mind if I go?” Alan asked.

            Austin abandoned the meager portion left of the mango to look Alan in the eye. “No. Do what you need to do.”

            Alan had half the mind to hesitate and make an excuse to stay, but he couldn’t string any words together. He got up to leave before he felt fingers enclose around his wrist and yank him back down.

            Before Alan could even comprehend what was happening, Austin had pressed their lips together in a forceful and frantic kiss. “Come back,” Austin breathed against his lips in a plea that made Alan’s knees weak.

            All Alan could do was nod with his mouth agape as he walked towards the search party. His head was swimming, and all he wanted to do was return to Austin’s side and ask if that had been real or another kiss that meant absolutely nothing.

 

IV.

 

            Ryan had left Brendon to nap for a half an hour while the search party organized themselves and equipped themselves with useful supplies in case any of them were to be separated on the mission. Finally, when Alex Gaskarth, Josh Franceschi, Alan Ashby, and Patrick Stump were prepared to leave, Ryan decided to wake Brendon. With Pete gone and Patrick leaving, Ryan knew that leadership responsibilities had shifted onto Brendon’s shoulders; after all, he was charismatic, encouraging, and a defiant optimist.

            “Mphrug….” Brendon slurred nonsensically when Ryan shook him.

            “They’re leaving,” he whispered, “Thought I should wake you.”

            Brendon blinked through the sunlight that filtered into the merch tent and smiled at Ryan. And Ryan smiled back because he could remember countless times in their past when Brendon had woken up like this: with Ryan on top of him, tangled in each other’s embrace and gaze.

            “You look terrible,” Ryan hummed, relaxing atop of Brendon and resting a timid head on his chest. He heard the way Brendon’s heartbeat hammered within his chest, and he tried to ignore the only dizzying sensation that was making his stomach somersault.

            Brendon laughed. “Baby, you always were a good sweet talker.”

            Ryan smirked. “I’ve got you in bed, though, haven’t I?”

            “You do,” Brendon mused. “Now what?”

            And Ryan had so many things he had wanted to do to Brendon, in his mind. He wanted to rip their clothes off and fuck him into the sand. He wanted to let loose to the animalistic side that the island was coaxing out, the part of him that had filthy dreams about Brendon and what they used to do. The other part of him wanted to curl up next to Brendon, laying naked in the heat of the island, and sleep.

            But all around Ryan there were shouts of organization from those about to embark on their search mission. There was still dregs of sadness in Patrick’s voice as he sniffled answers and questions to his peers. Ryan could hear frustration in Josh Franceschi’s voice as he bitched about Max Helyer’s disappearance, as though Max had orchestrated the whole thing himself. In those split seconds, Ryan suddenly remembered the state of his and Brendon’s relationship. There was a bitterness within the two of them that had never properly left since the breakup. It would always be there, lingering in the back of their minds, even if neither wanted to acknowledge it.

            Ryan tried to distract himself with the memory of their kiss from earlier, but that depressed him even more. Brendon hadn’t kissed him from any suddenly-realized feelings. Brendon had kissed him because desperation had told him to. They were dying, there was no question about that, and Brendon had needed something to distract him in the frenzy of that eventuality.

            “What’s wrong?” Brendon asked.

            “Nothing,” Ryan lied, “Leg cramp. G-gonna go walk it off.”

            Brendon nodded in understanding, shuffling around in an effort to get up.

            Ryan prodded him back down. “Go back to bed,” he ordered, “I’ll keep things under control.”

            Brendon searched Ryan’s eyes desperately, as though he wanted to draw him back towards the toxicity of his lips. Playing with fire, Ryan leaned in and pecked Brendon’s lips quickly, knowing it would probably be their last. He tried to savor it, but Brendon’s lips were dry and chapped and his breath smelled rank from sleep.

            Ryan stumbled out of the tent in a daze, feeling as though eons had passed since he had entered it. All his five senses were alight with Brendonbrendonbrendon. His skin buzzed from the contact, and he couldn’t breathe because all he could inhale was the bedraggled scent of Brendon that he remembered from hotel beds and the jackets the other boy had leant them when they were younger.

            “What’s wrong?” Jon asked. He was lounging on the makeshift hammock where Spencer was still sleeping.

            Ryan shook his head, still trying to breathe something that didn’t remind him of a past lover. Desperate to put distance between him and Brendon Urie, he walked over to Jon and leaned against one of the trees the hammock was tied to. “Brendon kissed me.”

            “Congratulations?”

            “No. He only kissed me because we’re dying.”

            “We are?”

            “ Not yet,” said Ryan, “but eventually.”

            “Well, everyone knows that,” said Jon matter-of-factly. “That’s the essence of the human race.”

            “No, we’re going to die on this island.”

            “Speak for yourself, Ross.”

            “Whatever.” Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s why he kissed me.”

            “Sounds like false pretenses to me.”

            “You just don’t get it, Jon,” Ryan groaned in aggravation.

            “No, I don’t,” Jon agreed, “Brendon’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, Ryan. He’s not complicated; you’re just making him out to be. If he kissed you, it wasn’t just because of the circumstances.”

            Ryan shrugged, but he didn’t argue. There was never any point of arguing with Jon; that simply wasn’t the bass player’s style. Jon usually asked too many questions until you were too aggravated to argue back. It was like a psychotherapist, forcing you to look towards your unconscious instead of deciphering anything useful as a nonbiased party.

            In the distance, Ryan saw the search party begin its hike up the mountain.

            Casting a quick glance towards the tent to make sure Brendon had gone back to sleep, Ryan began to sprint over towards the party. “Can I come?”

            Patrick looked up in surprise. “Uh…yeah.”

            “Thanks.”

            And just like that, Ryan joined the search party, desperate to keep some miles between him and Brendon.

 

V.

 

            It had taken them the better part of the day to hike up the mountain in the heat.

            The sun beat down upon them mercilessly, and sweat fell like rain from their bodies. While sitting down on one of their many allotted breaks, many of them kept gazing longingly towards the forest where the trees would provide shelter from the sun’s rays and keep them cool. But Patrick was adamant that none of them should enter the forest until it was a last resort. After all, he was determined that there was something strange about the mountain. It was where Frank Iero had been lured to when he had gone missing, it was where Pete admitted to seeing Joe and Andy in his dreams, and it was the last site of Jack and Max. Surely, they would find something at the top.

            The disappearance had everyone in sour moods. Josh was surly and snapped at all the little things. Alan remained silent but was visibly brooding. Patrick and Alex were both hysterical. Ryan was fucking depressed.

            “Mind if I go on ahead for a bit?” Alex asked, unable to sit still while everyone sat and dehydrated, trying to cool off in the humidity. Even after years of playing Warped Tour and summer festivals, none of the musicians were well-acquainted with the heat. “We’re almost at the top.”

            “We should stick together,” Patrick said.

            “Please,” he begged.

            Finally, Patrick relented and Alex began to jog up what was left of the mountain towards the top where the SOS supposedly had been set up. He had abandoned his shirt and  tied it around his head in order to keep his face from drastically burning. His sunglasses kept slipping from his face due to accumulation of sweat, and Alex was forced to shove them into his pocket as he sprinted up the mountain. He panted and felt as though he were about to tip over and throw up; he knew he should’ve stay with the group to catch his breath and relax. However, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. He had almost lost the boy several times on this island, and he was sick of letting him slip through his fingers. Alex knew he wasn’t a knight in shining armor, but he couldn’t help but feel a little exhausted of the temporary role that had thrust itself upon him. Alex was the one who needed a hero, it felt; he seemed to always be drowning in himself, but he was always forced to push that aside for Jack Barakat.

            With black spots in his eyes and a dry mouth, Alex made it to the top of the mountain and fell onto the plane, panting through his collapse. And that was when he saw it. Panic arose inside him, and he forced himself to scramble to his feet (pretending desperately that this was a show he had to finish). He had found Jack, but Alex wished he hadn’t.

            He was laying in a pool of his own blood, collapsed by a series of a sticks and rocks that Alex supposed had been to create the SOS. Doing a quick scan of the periphery, Alex couldn’t spot Max. Desperately, as he fell to his knees on the blood-stained sand, Alex cried out down below.

            “ _Help_!” he choked, his throat rough and his voice lost.

            He heard the stampede of feet from behind him, but he couldn’t look away from the disaster. Jack was unconscious, and Alex could see someone had ripped the stitches that Tay had administered out. He was bleeding out all over again. Alex wondered how long he had been like this.

            Immediately, he pressed his ear to his chest to hear his heart beat. It was faint, but it was there.

            Alex desperately tried to remember anything about first aid but he couldn’t think of anything.

            “Dirt,” Alan Ashby panted from behind Alex, having been the first to reach the top.

            “What?”

            “To stop him bleeding out,” Alan said, already rushing over to the edge of the forest and scooping some dirt up from the ground. “Plug some dirt in the wound.”

            Alex shook his head frantically. “He’ll get an infection.”

            “There’s a risk,” Alan agreed, but he had already sunk down beside Jack and was quickly plugging dirt into the wound. “But an infection won’t set in for a couple days, if it does. Bleeding out could kill him in a few hours.”

            “Can’t we just have Tay stitch the wound up again?” asked Alex desperately, but there was nothing he could do. Alan was still packing dirt into the wound.

            “This is what Navy SEALs do,” Alan explained. “And Tay won’t be able to make it up here until someone grabs her. We can’t move him in this state.”

            Alex nodded.

            He couldn’t hear anything. Once again, he was drowning in himself. Black spots began to frequent his vision, and there was nothing he could do but succumb to them. His mouth was dry. From miles and miles away, Alex heard Alan to shout down to get some medical help. He heard more shuffling of feet, but Alex tried to block that out. He wasn’t sure if he was screaming, or if it was his imagination.

            He wasn’t sure of anything at this point.

 

VI.

 

            Someone had come down from the mountain, frantic, for medical assistance. Tay had grabbed the first aid kit, and both Rian and Cassadee had joined her to help. News spread around the island that Jack had been found, but there was no news on anyone else.

            Gerard, Frank, and Bob sat around the fire. It was the first time they’d been able to properly do that since Frank had plunged from the bluff, and Gerard had nearly drowned trying to save him. Had Ray and Mikey been with them, it would have felt like an average night for the five of them.

            Instead, night had fallen, and they were huddled around a fire, cooking two pieces of fish to share between the three of them. Due to the circumstances, Frank had finally submitted to eating fish, despite his strict vegetarian diet. But Gerard constantly reminded him that it was a life or death situation on the island. None of it counted.

            “Why do I feel like this is our last night alive?” grumbled Frank. Gerard had an arm around him and was rubbing soothing circles in his back. It made Frank sleepy.

            “It’s not,” Gerard said, tightening his grip on Frank. They had already dealt with one death scare, and Gerard was not going to lose anyone else. He still couldn’t think of Mikey or Ray properly without getting choked up.

            “If it is,” Bob said, “I’d have to say this has been a hell of a ride with you guys.”

            “Bob!” Gerard snapped sharply, but Bob silenced him.

            “I’m being serious, Gerard,” he said, “I never thought, after I left the band, that I’d ever come back on a reunion tour. Now that I have, I mean, I have to say that I don’t regret it. Yeah, we haven’t had a single show yet, and we’re stuck in the middle of fuck knows where, but it’s been an interesting ride.”

            “Agreed,” Frank spoke up, “I’d do this all again if I had to. Every good bit and every shitty bit.” Without warning, he spring up from where he was sitting and disappeared into the empty Fall Out Boy tent. Finally, he came back out with one of the guitars that was circulating around the island that Patrick had been borrowing. Pete had been inspired for a song, and they had been desperately trying to write to distract themselves from tragedy.

            Bob and Gerard looked at Frank as he sat down, double-checked if the guitar was tuned properly, and began strumming softly.

            “No one wants a sing-along, Frank,” Gerard said in a clipped tone as he heard the opening riff, recognizing it instantly.

            “Humor us, Gerard,” teased Bob.

            Frank was strumming ‘The Kids from Yesterday’ and Gerard had never been more inclined to sob. It was terrifically fitting for their predicament and current feelings on the island. He knew it would be the last My Chemical Romance song he would sing anyways. The band would never continue without Mikey and Ray; that much was true.

            Sighing, Gerard joined in.

            “ _Well now this could be the last of all the rides we take, so hold on tight and don’t look back.”_

            Frankie was muttering the lyrics to himself, as he kept time on his guitar. And Bob had even joined in by drumming on his lap. It was an intimate kind of sing-along that they had never done. Sure, they had practiced their songs in private and played them on stage; but they had never sat around and unabashedly sang their own songs to sum up their moods. It seemed pretentious to do so.

            But it was fitting.

            So Gerard sang. It was all he could do, and it was all he knew to do. He couldn’t bring Mikey or Ray back, and he couldn’t fix their situation. He was an artist and a musician; he was not a hero, a rescuer, or a savior. So all he could do in a dire situation was sing his heart out.

            “ _Cause you only live forever in the lights you make. When we were young we used to say, that you only hear the music when your heart begins to break…. Now we are the kids from yesterday._ ”

            The haunting melody of the song garnered some attention from their neighbors on the island, but nobody spoke. Everybody was either scared to death or lamenting the loss of the missing and dead persons since their initial crash on the island.

            All they had been doing on the island since their plane went down over the Pacific was crash into people and things. They crashed into emotions and lies, realizations and long-lost feelings that had resurfaced. They crashed into inspiration for music, had fallen into rock bottom, then resurfaced for hope before crashing back into the welcoming arms of depression. They could not escape crashes. They were eminent in life, they were constant, and they would never stop, especially when it involved the fragility of the human heart.

            “Are you okay?” whispered Frank, quieting down the strumming of his riff to an almost silence.

            Gerard nodded with tears in his eyes. He wasn’t lying, either. In this single minute, this single moment, with Frank and Bob on either side of him, he felt okay. For once, Gerard was not lying. It was refreshing not to crash and burn.

 

VII.

 

            The music had quit, but the crackling of the fires still provided an ambient soundtrack for the survivors on the island. With the search party still gone, on top of the mountain trying to aid Jack and refusing to meander down the mountain in the nightfall, the beach felt empty. Personally, Gabe Saporta felt as though he were able to breathe for once in his life. It wasn’t as though the others on the island suffocated Gabe, but he had never liked the feeling of contained spaces. For one, Gabe had always been too tall for small spaces; besides, he had always loved to run around in the outdoors as a child (and even in adulthood, trading in his backyard for a stage). Being tucked in tight spaces or being constrained to stay still drove Gabe mad. Without as many people sleeping in the tents around them, Gabe felt as though he could stretch without worrying about waking others. He didn’t go far, but he wandered over to the surf, dipping his feet in to feel the coolness of the water. It had been such a sweltering afternoon that the iciness of the Pacific felt refreshing.

            William was snoring softly where Gabe had left him beside the crackling fire. Ryland, Nate, and Victoria had gone to sleep. Butcher and Sisky had retreated to their own tent, agreeing that their presence added a sense of claustrophobia that no one appreciated.

            Feeling refreshed, Gabe returned to the fire where he could see William’s eyes fluttering open. He sat up, swaying slightly in a fit of disorientation. “W-what?”

            Gabe knit his eyebrows together in confusion. “Go back to bed, Guillermo.”

            “It’s nighttime?” William squinted into the firelight.

            “It has been…for a while. That’s why you went to sleep.”

            William shook his head, shaking off Gabe’s hand that was attempting to coax him back into a reclining position. “I-I don’t remember that.”

            “Are you okay?”

            “No,” admitted William, “I’ve been so fucking tired lately. A-and I don’t even remember falling asleep. It just happens.”

            “You’re overworking yourself,” said Gabe, remembering how William’s anxiety used to keep him up until all hours of the night, so that he and Gabe were either on the phone with each other or snuggled into one of the tour bus bunks together, whispering to each other. William would be nervous about album reception, about performing a song for the first time, about everything under the sun. And Gabe had held his hand and listened. There was nothing else he could do.

            “But I’m not,” William insisted, “I just can’t stop sleeping. I don’t know why. I feel useless.”

            “Not much to do on the island.”

            “I know, but I at least want to spend the days with you.”

            Gabe beamed and pulled William close. “Go to sleep, Guillermo. I will be here in the morning.”

            William yawned. “I know. I’m just worried that I won’t be.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I keep hearing…noises. L-like voices. They’re always calling to me. Like, it keeps telling me to go to the forest.”

            Gabe immediately tightened his grip around William like a reflex. “Don’t leave me, Bilvy.”

            “I won’t,” said William, “but every time it happens, I get so sleepy.” He yawned again. “I don’t know why.”

            “Don’t you ever leave me,” begged Gabe into the column of skin that was William’s neck. He placed a lingering kiss there and pleaded again. “Don’t ever do that.”

            But William had already fallen asleep again, snoring softly. Wordlessly and effortlessly, Gabe picked up William and tucked him into bed next to him, making sure that there was a grip tight enough on William so he wouldn’t lose him.

 

VIII.

 

            After ranting for hours and pacing back-and-forth, Brendon Urie had finally fallen asleep…albeit without Ryan Ross safely returned from the rescue mission. He felt like a failure of a leader, being that half the island or more was either missing or gone to find the missing persons. Tay, Rian, and Cassadee had joined them to provide medical aid upon the finding of Jack Barakat who was in as bad a shape as he had been when the plane originally crashed. He was asleep and so was Spencer, leaving Jon to stay up in the loneliness of the island night. He felt on edge, and he knew it was a result of all the disappearances. Out of all of them, though, Pete Wentz’s definitely hurt the most. While Pete had never been the most put-together guy, nor the most sane, he had usually always come through in the end. He was a leader, and there was nothing else to it. Now he was gone, and Jon could feel the spirits of the island crumbling. Patrick was a nervous wreck, and even Brendon struggled under the weight of leadership. None of them were mentally prepared to fill Pete Wentz’s shoes.

            Spencer was tangled up in Jon. He slept most of the day to stop himself from feeling the pain from his ankle and from the attack he had when he was hallucinating. Jon still couldn’t get the haunting images of Spencer’s body out of his mind. The cryptic runes had frightened Jon- maybe not the runes themselves but the idea that someone had been close enough to Spencer to etch those on his body.

            Jon ran a hand through Spencer’s hair, which had grown shaggy in the absence of grooming (as all of theirs had). Jon had joked that they had finally joined his hippie commune. They had all groaned as Jon had begun rambling on about his trip to Costa Rica, which would’ve been a perfect location for a hippie commune. It was isolated, the weather was nice, and the sights were beautiful. He and Cassie, besides sightseeing and sex, had been in a constant high from marijuana.

            At the thought of Costa Rica, Jon remembered something.

            Whipping out his phone and turning it on in the first time in forever (he had thought it best to save battery in case they needed it, even if there was no service on the island), he immediately opened up his photo gallery. Browsing through pictures of his cats, funny items he had found in stores, and pictures of him and Cassie, Jon eventually found pictures from their trip to Costa Rica.

            He and Cassie, at one point, had taken a boat ride on a river with a tour guide. Eventually, the trees had become dense on the river, and the tour guide refused to push the boat further as they had reached a decrepit woodland. When asked why, he explained that the area was cursed. Jon had snapped a picture of some trees that had been written on.

            And right there, in Costa Rica, had been the same runes that had been found on Spencer’s body. Jon almost cried when he remembered what the tour guide had told them of those runes….

 

IX.

 

            Once again, the fires had died down, and the occupants on the beach had fallen asleep. In the middle of the night, Kellin snuck out of the tent and wandered mechanically towards where he had buried the gun. He had been so sure he had buried it. It had not been a dream. Digging up the worn spot where he had dug up with Vic, Kellin repeated his actions, alone this time.

            And there it was.

            In the hole that he had shown Vic was the gun that Vic couldn’t see.

            Kellin had always wondered if he was going insane, but he never thought it would feel like this. Part of his mind told him to return to Vic, with the gun in hand, and show his friend he wasn’t crazy. He wanted to give the gun up and keep temptation from his fingertips.

            But something was drawing Kellin’s hand closer. And as he touched the gun, thoughts of Vic seemed to slip from his mind. He couldn’t remember the night that Vic had saved his life; all Kellin could remember was the intense pleasure of feeling the gun against his skin.

            For the second time in his life, Kellin pressed the barrel of a gun to his temple and breathed.


	11. The Daughters of Eve

I. 

 

The island was pitch black. The moon was nothing more than a sliver of light, and most of the starlight was shielded by thick clouds. Most of the fires had died out, but their embers still burned in the dark, but even their feeble light was no help in the forest. Desperate, he picked his way through the thickening brambles of trees and tripped over rocks (swearing vehemently in Spanish every time he did; he was too tired and too fucking old for this shit). But he couldn’t even hear the hiss of curses that streamed from his mouth over the hammering of his heart. Kellin hadn’t been beside him when Vic awoke to take a piss.

            He had tried waking Tony and Mike up, but both of them slept like the dead. Besides, Vic didn’t want to waste any time in finding Kellin. In the darkness, he had a hard time remembering the path Kellin had taken him on to show him the gun that didn’t exist. Vic wished he could’ve given Kellin another sleeping pill to ensure the other didn’t wander off, but they were out.

            Their supplies on the island were dwindling towards nonexistence. Even the fruits and nuts that had been so plentiful on their arrival seemed harder to find with each passing day. Hardly anyone was having luck catching fish. If they didn’t all succumb to the insanity soon, Vic knew they would die of starvation in a few weeks. The last of the travel-sized shampoos they’d salvaged from the wreck were gone, and there were less than a handful of pain pills left for all of them.

            But even with the bleakness of starvation ahead, Vic was determined to keep Kellin alive.

            A twig cracked beneath Vic’s foot, and the noise echoed in the empty forest. Vic froze, almost certain he had heard something else with that noise…something alive! He strained his ears, hoping to hear whatever it was, but knew it was no use. Whatever was on this island with them simply did not want to be found. Besides, Vic was wasting too much time.

            Abandoning his cautionary steps, Vic increased his pace through the forest in an effort to get to Kellin quicker than, well, whatever else was in this forest with them.

            As Vic’s feet pounded across the moist soil of the forest floor, he was certain something else was running in the forest too. He could hear agile steps padding softly in the distance, but he couldn’t convince himself that it was an animal. He’d never heard in animal run like that. Just from the rhythm, Vic could hear the calculated steps of someone that didn’t want to be heard, someone darting around trees and pausing in sync with Vic.

            He saw it.

            There was the clearing Kellin had taken him to. And in the middle of the clearing with a gun to his head for the second time in his life, Kellin Quinn sat.

            Vic wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to startle him and risk Kellin pulling the trigger, but dawdling behind the trees would only waste the time that neither he nor Kellin had that night.

            Each second stretched to infinity. Vic couldn’t breathe, standing and watching Kellin with a gun against his temple. Everything felt surreal, and he felt frozen in fear.

            Finally, with a voice that didn’t sound like his, Vic said, “K-Kellin, it’s me.”

            He saw the figure in the clearing tense, and he saw the instinctive movement of his finger as though it were itching to press the trigger. Vic couldn’t breathe; he felt as though he were choking and wanted to collapse to the ground and sob and scream at Kellin that _he couldn’t do this._ _Not again_. Agonizingly slow, though, Kellin lowered the gun from his head. But he didn’t turn around. Instead, his shoulders trembled. Vic knew he was crying.

            “Kel, I believe you.”

            “Vic, I’m going insane.”

            “No, Kel, I believe you,” he repeated. “About the gun. I see it, too.”

            But Kellin didn’t answer, and Vic took the opportunity of seeing that gun held limply by Kellin’s side to edge closer to his friend. He moved slowly, hoping not to startle Kellin.

            “Can I ask you a question, Kel?”

            “I’m assuming you didn’t come all this way because you fancied a walk,” retorted Kellin with a hollow voice that broke Vic’s heart.

            “Do you remember the day I came back from Pierce the Veil’s last tour?” Kellin stopped trembling, evidently surprised at the question. Vic continued taking small steps towards Kellin. “And I came straight to your house from the airport because I didn’t want to see anyone else before I saw you. We watched _The Terminator_. Do you remember that?”

            Kellin nodded. “Yeah. You made me promise if the robot war ever happens in the future that I would come back and impregnate you, so the savior of the human race could be born.” He choked out a laugh.

            “You tried making me paella, but you burned it. So we ordered out instead,” Vic continued, “Then, I was so jet-lagged I never even made it to the guest room. Just fell asleep against you on the couch.”

            “Yeah, I remember. So?”

            “You told me once that you wanted that to be the last memory you had with me.” Vic finally reached Kellin and crouched down, grabbing the hand holding the gun.

            Kellin shrugged in a defeated sort of way. “Seemed like a nice night to remember someone by.”

            “Well, I don’t want this island to be the last memories I have of you, Kellin.” His grip relaxed on the gun, and Vic was able to remove it.

            Then Kellin was crying again. His body fell limp against Vic, and he buried his face into the crook of Vic’s shoulder, choking out apologies.

            “You don’t owe me an apology.”

            “I’ve been so selfish!” Kellin wailed. “I wanted to die, and I didn’t think of you.”

            “Kel, you’re allowed to be selfish. Like I said, you need help. Please don’t apologize for that.”

            Kellin unlatched himself from Vic and wiped his eyes, though they were masked by the length of Kellin’s hair that had grown unruly. “W-when I went and got help, Vic, a-after that first time…my therapist told me something.” He inhaled a shaky breath. “She told me that apologies mean you’ll never do it again. V-vic, I’m sorry.”

           

II.

 

            “Please, Alex, get some sleep.”

            He ignored her and kept pacing. In fact, Alex couldn’t remember the last time he had a full night’s sleep. He could feel the repercussions, too. His body felt heavier, as though his skin were slipping off his bones. His movements were sluggish, too, and his speech had begun to slur so often because it was simply too much energy to articulate his sentences. But he was damned if he was going to sleep while Jack teetered between life and death.

            “We have this handled,” Cassadee assured Alex. She and Tay were both trying to save Jack. Alex never felt so useless, but he refused to listen to them. Instead, he continued to pace around the cliff. Rian tried pushing on his shoulder and urging him to sit, but Alex shrugged him away. None of them understood.

            They had been unable to do much during the dark, though they didn’t have to worry about Jack bleeding out because of the dirt they’d plugged the wounds with. Though, there was an unspoken understanding that if they didn’t get off the island soon, Jack would die of infection. So when he wasn’t pacing, Alex was fixing up the SOS and stealing glances towards the ocean in hopes of sighting rescue.

            Thankfully, dawn had begun to trickle over the horizon in thin golden beams. Tay and Cassadee set to work cleaning out Jack’s wound, while Rian and Alex were forced to make several trips to the freshwater pond for water. The dirt had staunched the blood loss overnight, but Tay wanted to try and clean most of that out to prolong the time it might take for an infection to set in. Alex didn’t once question her. He hardly even knew CPR, let alone first aid.

            When she and Cassadee had cleaned the wound as best they could, they discovered that needle for stitches had disappeared.

            “What the fuck does that mean?” Alex demanded.

            Cassadee glared at him, but Tay responded patiently. “It means we can’t stitch Jack back up.”

            “B-but we can’t leave the wound open…like that!” He pointed incredulously at Jack’s wound. While the time he spent with stitches in it seemed to have healed it, the stitches being torn out the way they were had reopened a small bit of the wound.

            “Well we’re going to have to go with an open treatment,” Tay said, “there’s nothing else we can do. We stopped the bleeding, and we cleaned the wound.”

            “We cleaned it to keep an infection at bay. Keeping it open is basically inviting one in--no.” Alex shook his head. “It’s basically throwing an infection a party.” His voice had finally found a note of hysteria he had never known existed. “Hey there, bacteria! Take a seat, you’re the guest of honor. And oh look! It’s a giant fucking staph infection! Glad you could make it!”

            Tay continued to ignore Alex, but Rian put a hand on his shoulder.

            Alex hit it away unceremoniously. “I don’t want to fucking sleep. I want Jack to get better.”

            “We all do, Alex, but your paranoid rants are not helping,” Rian said firmly. “If you’re not going to sleep, you’re at least going to have to be fucking patient.”

            Alex stopped pacing. He wanted to hit Rian, but he knew Rian deserved no such thing. Finally, groaning in defeat, Alex collapsed onto the ground next to Jack and pulled his knees up to chin. Tay, meanwhile, was placing a dressing on Jack’s wound and bandaging it in place.

            “All we can do,” she said finally, “is keep changing the dressing and cleaning the wound.”

            Alex didn’t even respond. He felt drained, physically and emotionally. Instead, he reached out to card his fingers through Jack’s hair. It was sweaty and coarse and unwashed. He desperately tried to brush the sand out of it, but that was a losing battle- at least until they could carry Jack down to the tents and onto the blankets.

            “You’re not allowed to die, you prick,” he murmured.

            Tay repacked the first aid kit and gave Jack one last look before standing up. “That’s all I can do.”

            “Thanks, Tay.” Rian said. “Why don’t you get some sleep? You look exhausted.”

            She nodded.

            “We’ll stay up here and keep an eye on Jack,” Cassadee assured her.

            Alex looked over at Tay. He felt so guilty, especially because he could see a small bump in Tay’s stomach that he otherwise would have missed had he not known she was pregnant. Yet here Tay was stitching up Jack without any feelings of resentment that the guitarist had stolen her boyfriend from her. He so badly wanted to convey this gratitude to Tay, but knew it was no good.

            Instead, all he could croak was, “Thanks, Tay.”

            She nodded and walked back towards him, leaning down and pressing a delicate kiss to his forehead. “Get some sleep, Alex,” she whispered before departing down the mountain.

            Jack twitched.

            Alex shuffled as close as he could to him, looking frantically back towards Tay and wondering if he should tell her what was happening. What if Jack was having an episode?!

            But Jack smacked his lips instead as though he had been sleeping the entire time.

            “LoveyouLex,” he slurred. His eyes fluttered for an infinitesimal second, but Alex knew he had seen it. Jack was going to be alright.

            Either from stress or from lack of sleep or both, Alex felt tears in his eyes. He grabbed for Jack’s hand and squeezed it. “Love you too, Jacky.”

 

III.

 

            Once the island was properly awake and coherent (and news that Jack Barakat was going to make it had spread), Jon hurriedly woke up Brendon and Spencer and asked them to call a meeting among the survivors. He needed everyone to hear this, or they would never make it off this island alive.

            Groggy and hungry (a single fish had been caught that morning and a handful of nuts), everyone convened around the one of the fires they had revived. William Beckett was slumped against Gabe about to pass out again; Jon had to admit that he looked horrible with bags under his eyes and pale skin and a thinness to him that seemed more sickly rather than Williamish.

            When the short amount of chatter died down, Jon stood up and cleared his throat. “I know where we are,” he announced.

            “Yeah. A fucking island,” Nate Novarro retorted.

            “An island?!” Ryland gasped. “I had no idea. I was wondering how all this sand made it into my house. Thanks, Jon!”

            “Stop being smartasses!” Spencer snapped.

            Jon waited for silence again. “I learned about this place when I was on vacation in Costa Rica. Pete was right: we need to get off this island quickly because we are not alone on it.”

            He could see a tremor pass through the group.

            “Does that mean you know what those markings on Tino’s body was?” Austin Carlile asked.

            Jon nodded. “They’re the markings of a curse.”

            “Like witchcraft?”

            He nodded again. “We’re on Calypso’s Island.” When that garnered no response, Jon explained, “In Costa Rica, a lot of the residents called this place a superstition or an old horror story told to children. But it’s not. Cassie and I had this tour guide who simply refused to go past a certain point in the river because of rumors that members of the island tribe had set up residence there.”

            “Tribe?”

            “They call themselves the Daughters of Eve because they believe they are prophesied to be the mother of humanity-- or at least, the new humanity they would like to create. A new humanity of only women.”

            “So why bother us?”

            “Well, we’re on their island uninvited and last time I checked, the majority of us were men whom they despise. Those markings on Tino are a warning of the curse that will be enacted should we continue to stay on their island.” Jon took a breath. “If we stay on their island, we will be subjected to the Sons of Adam ritual. This is when the matriarchy’s shaman chooses one of the women who are dying and puts their mind inside a young and whole body.”

            “For immortality?”

            “No, so that one of the daughters can control a man’s body to ensure the continued survival of their tribe. Then they will sacrifice the woman with the man’s mind and soul inside her.”

            “Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned sperm donor?” Ryland muttered, but no one laughed.

            Jon himself had not believed the tour guide when he had been in Costa Rica. It had been a horror story and nothing more (Jon had even thought about writing a movie script based on the idea, but he had never been too keen on feeding the free market with another unneeded blockbuster movie).

            “So we need to all stick together!” Brendon announced to the group.

            “But what about the search party for Pete?”

            Brendon screwed up his face. “What do you mean? Aren’t they on the top of the cliff helping Jack Barakat?”

            “No.” Tay had returned from the mountain and was trudging towards the fire. “Alex stayed behind to help Jack. Everyone else went into the forest to find Max and Pete.”

            Jon could see the cogs of Brendon’s mind running frantically. He had forgot to mention that Ryan had joined the search party, but he knew that Brendon was adding two-and-two together.

            “Jon, we have to get Ryan!” Brendon’s voice was strangled and frantic.

            “Doesn’t it seem counterproductive to send a search party after the search party?”

            Gabe Saporta agreed. “Everyone needs to stick together.”

            “This isn’t a search party, Jon, this is desperation.” Brendon looked as though he were about to cry, but he blinked away the tears. “I’ll never forgive myself if they find Ryan before I do, Jon. Jon, I love him. I can’t lose him again.”

            “But Spencer can’t walk.”

            “I’ll stay here. You two find Ryan.”

            Jon looked at Spencer and saw the same kind of desperation in them. Finally, Jon nodded; he and Brendon would try and find the group and warn them about the tribe on the island.

            He helped Spencer off the ground to escort him back to the shade of the tent, so he could rest and be protected from the harsh sun beating down on them. There was no more sunscreen left, and the last thing Spencer needed on top of everything else was sun poisoning. His cheeks were already a little pink.

            “Find him. Please,” murmured Spencer, “and come back, too.”

            Jon nodded, but could find no words to say back to Spencer. He didn’t want this to sound like goodbye. With one final look at Spencer, Jon followed Brendon up the mountain. At the top, they would enter the forest in hopes of tracking the others.

 

IV.

 

            It was infected.

            They didn’t even need to look real close to conclude this. Gerard’s arm simply refused to heal from the self-inflicted cuts. Originally, Frank had just assumed the redness around the area was natural. Now, nothing about the cut looked natural. It was leaking pus, and Frank knew that was a sure sign of infection. The drainage was a cloudy yellow that Frank had never seen before, even on all those terrible hospital shows, and he felt like he wanted to throw up. But he didn’t want Gerard to know how bad it truly was.

            “It hurts,” Gerard complained as he laid the arm on Frank’s lap. Frank had asked Tay Jardine for a new dressing when she returned with the first aid kit. There were three left now, and Frank hoped that they were rescued before Jack Barakat need his changed much more.

            “It’s going to hurt, Gee.”

            “They’ve never hurt like this before,” he muttered.

            Frank sighed, “That’s because you always had access to aftercare, and you never had to expose the cuts to fucking sand and dirt and whatever else is on this island.”

            Gerard bit his lip. “Will we have to amputate, then?”

            “Very funny.” Frank couldn’t even remember if that was what you did when wounds became severely infected. Or did they just give you an antibiotic? He had no fucking clue. He was a guitarist, not a doctor.

            Bob wasn’t much help, either. He kept voicing the worst-case scenarios to the two of them and had become sullen and moody since the discovery of Jon Walker’s. Frank refused to let him in the tent while he cleaned up Gerard; no point in working them all into a frenzy.

            “I didn’t think,” he whispered, “I just… I just wanted to die, I guess.”

            “I know, Gee,” Frank sighed. “I know you haven’t had your medication. And I know we’re in a shitty situation. You don’t have to justify your depression to me.” He finished cleaning the drainage from the wound and wrapping the dressing around, bandaging it in place.

            “Thanks.”

            But Frank didn’t let go of Gerard’s hand. He held it tighter. There was so much he wanted to say to Gerard about what had happened since they crashed. But he couldn’t think straight. Not with he and Gerard like this- almost like they used to be.

            Except they were both older and both married and both with families. Gerard even looked older, though Frank supposed this was just because the red dye on his hair was fading and his roots were growing in extremely dark. Exhaustion was etched on his face, and his hazel eyes seemed in a constant state of glassiness.

            Frank sighed and brought Gerard’s hand up to his lips and kissed the stretch of skin just below the bandage on his wrist. “If you want to die, Gee, then I want to die with you.”

            “Don’t say shit like that, Shakespeare.”

            Frank laced his fingers with Gerard’s in a tight grip. “I’m serious. I can’t live without my best friend.” Then Frank shook his head. Bob was right: they had to live in the moment. Any day could be their deaths. Gingerly, he held Gerard’s hand in his before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to their lips. Gerard’s lips were dry and chapped from being chewed on, but Frank forgot how much he had missed this. This Gerard. _His_ Gerard.

            Gerard responded back, though it was with a little more hesitancy and shyness than usual. He really wanted to telepathically communicate to Gerard and tell him to stop over thinking and just kiss him back, but it was no use. Gerard would just think himself into circles.

            Frank pulled away with reluctance. “Are you okay?”

            Gerard seemed dazed. “I-I couldn’t live without you either.”

            “Glad we’re in agreement on that,” Frank said dryly. “At this rate, you and I could be in Congress, what with how long it takes us to make decisions.”

            “Political humor is way too adult on you, Frank.”

            “Didn’t realize I was ten-years-old, _Dad_.”

            “Please don’t!” Gerard’s lips pursed. “Twitter users and their daddy kinks creeped me out.”

            “Right.” Frank tried to hide his laughter. “Fine. Sorry, Gramps.”

            “I just meant that…well, you used to always make terrible dick jokes.”

            “And jokes about how old you are,” Frank reminded him.

            Gerard smiled at the memories. “Yeah…. Politics just reminds me that we really are grown-up.”

            “Speak for yourself.”

            “Well, we both have families now. Things are different, Frank. I don’t like to think about it too much.”

            “Then, don’t.”

            “It’s not that easy.”

            Frank grabbed Gerard’s other hand and laced their fingers together. Everything fell into place naturally. Like their hands were meant to be like this. “We’ll take things slow,” Frank assured Gerard. “We won’t jump into anything, okay?”

            Gerard nodded. Frank prodded Gerard back into a reclining position and laid beside him on their small pile of blankets. He buried his face into the crook of Gerard’s neck and squeezed his hand. “Is this slow enough?”

            Gerard released one of Frank’s hands and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Y-yeah. This works.”

 

V.

 

            He was fucking exhausted. While the trees provided adequate shade from the harsh rays of the sun, Ryan had still been up most of the night and into the day searching for Pete and Max. No one dared suggest they make camp in the forest and try to sleep. It was either find Pete and Max or don’t go back (even if that was unspoken). No one spoke. No one had anything to say, after all. Or they were all afraid of attracting something to them in the forest.

            Alex had remained behind when they saw how bad Jack’s wounds were, but everyone else had gone ahead and filtered into the forest. Josh Franceschi wasn’t even speaking. He tread across the forest carefully with a defeated sort of air; all the anger seemed to have left him. Patrick was anxious and jumped at every little noise, but he also looked fragile as though ready to break and start sobbing any minute. The only one who seemed to have his wits about him was Alan Ashby. He was cool and collected and the undesignated leader of their group.

            Ryan tried to keep his own sanity about him, but his mind kept drifting back to Brendon and Jon’s words: “ _Brendon’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, Ryan. He’s not complicated; you’re just making him out to be._ ”

            But would this be true when- _if_ \- they returned to society. Or would Brendon drop Ryan the way Ryan dropped Brendon so long ago in South Africa. He could remember it just like yesterday, standing out on the veranda with Brendon and admitting that he had to leave. There was no saving them. Then Ryan had gone and penned a whole album for Brendon, and Brendon had responded back by kissing his new bassist on stage for the whole world to see.

            He wonders if, after all this, they could be somewhat normal. They could move in together, buy a dog (or three, knowing Brendon), and live happily together. Ryan knew life couldn’t be like fairytales, but couldn’t he and Brendon at least fucking try? After all they’d been through, didn’t they at least deserve one more chance?

            They would never truly get the band back together, Ryan knew that for sure. It had been too much for them; it had torn them apart. Besides, they were both happier working on their own stuff. Ryan enjoyed being out of the public spotlight. He liked tinkering on his acoustic guitars and pianos in solitude. He liked scribbling song lyrics (mostly about Brendon) in his notebook and feeling free that he wouldn’t be judged or analyzed by over-zealous fans. Sometimes he missed the fans and the stories they’d tell him about saving their lives, but Ryan was happy making music this way. It was saving him.

            Lost in his thoughts, a snapping twig broke Ryan from his reveries.

            Several things seemed to happen at once. The sound echoed throughout the forest. Something else seemed to rise up from the ground and enclose them. And before the four of them knew it, they were dangling from a sturdy tree, encased in a net of thickened ropes.

            Ryan wanted to laugh at how very _Star Wars_ -esque and cliché this was…if it weren’t a life or death situation.

 

VI.

 

            The sun was starting to set, and the search team had not returned. Alex Gaskarth and Rian Dawson had managed to carry Jack down into the tent, and the All Time Low crew seemed to retire for the night. Everyone else stood on pins-and-needles, jumping at noises that included the crashing tides and looking anxiously in the forest hoping for the search party’s return but expecting an ambush. Sisky and Butcher joined Spencer Smith in his tent, as everyone was too scared to let anyone sleep alone. Matt Barnes had joined Austin Carlile in his tent, as it was further from the forest than the You Me at Six tent. Gabe knew no one would be sleeping comfortably tonight- if they slept at all.

            He couldn’t even think of shutting his eyes to sleep, but William was snoring softly beside him. In fact, William had probably only been awake for an hour throughout the entire day. He awoke for brief minutes at a time before lulled back to sleep. Gabe had never seen William behave like this, with or without his anxiety. The only thing that Gabe could conclude was that William was getting sicker.

            Vicky tried checking William for any signs of illness, but she found none. He had no symptoms: no fever, cough, or sore throat. The only symptom William had was deliriousness in his sleep. He would toss and turn and mutter. Once or twice, he thrashed violent and woke himself up screaming. Gabe was worried sick; he was afraid to sleep in case something happened to William.

            Vicky had stayed awake as long as she could to keep Gabe company before falling asleep. Everyone was just too hungry and exhausted to stay up any longer, even if the sun was only just setting. A few peaches had been found in the afternoon, but those hardly helped. No more fish seemed to be biting, and everything seemed much more scarce. It was as though the island were dying, too. Or it was involved in a plot to kill them faster, so the daughters of Eve could have peace from them. Ryland tried joking that they sacrifice Victoria to them, but she had pierced him with such a look that Ryland didn’t make another joke that night. Vicky refused to even cuddle up with him, even though she was shivering. With the setting sun, the island was beginning to cool down, and crisp breezes kept rolling through and rustling the trees nearby.

            Nate snored loudly and snapped Gabe out of his thoughts. He gazed down at William who was muttering so softly that Gabe had thought him snoring. He leaned down closer to hear what the other man was saying.

            “The forest…,” was the only word Gabe could decipher.

            He shook William awake.

            William snapped back into consciousness, looking both alarmed and confused. He tried to formulate a sentence but was overtaken but tremors. Gabe held him tight, wishing he could make all this stop.

            “G-gabe,” William gasped.

            Gabe held him tighter and tried rubbing soothing circles into William’s back. “I’m here Guillermo,” he whispered, knowing how much it relaxed William to hear Gabe speaking to him in Spanish. “ _Que esta mal_?”

            He knew William didn’t understand him, but it relaxed Gabe to hear himself trying to converse with William.

            “Gabe, the forest,” William muttered dazedly. “A song.”

            “You wanna hear a song?”

            “No, there is a song,” explained William defiantly. “A song. It wants me to come to the forest.”

            “That’s what happened to Pete.”

            “No, this is a good song,” William pleaded. “It will help. I know it will. This is a good one, Gabe. I know where Pete is. The song says so.”

            “Bill, you’re scaring me.”

            “Trust me.” William wiggled around to look at Gabe. He really did look sick, but he also looked conscious. There was a fire in his eyes that Gabe could recall from when they would perform on stage together. It was a wild and crazed look, but it was sincere. “This will help me.”

            And either because Gabe was losing it too or he was willing to do anything to save William, he helped him up from the tent, keeping a secure arm around his waist, and led the two of them into the darkening forest.

 

VII.

 

            When Max came to, he realized he was uncomfortably cramped and uncomfortably hot. He opened his eyes, watching the fuzziness of his vision dissipate before becoming adjusted to the darkness that now surrounded him. Upon waking, he began to panic.

            All around him were thick wooden bars that encircled Max. He was in a cage!

            He stood up, but hit his head on the bars above him. The cage was just big enough for him to sit in. He heard laughter when he hit his head, and suddenly he realized that all around him were shapes and shadows. People!

            Their silhouettes danced in the firelight. Max tried to talk, but his mouth was dry and felt like cotton. He didn’t want to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing him panic, even though he yearned for answers. He imagined if Josh were in here, the front man would be kicking and cursing and screaming. Max didn’t want to do that. He didn’t have the energy to do that. Instead he leaned against one of the bars and took a breath. Once it got lighter, once he got to see his surroundings better, maybe he could formulate a proper escape plan. He would be quiet and collected. He would make it out of here alive.


End file.
